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mm. 

CENTURY 


St  GRADES 


RjW^NAU3ffi»CO 


THE 

NEW  CENTURY  READERS 


BY  GRADES 


NUMBER    SIX 

REVISED 


SELECTED    FROM 

The  World's  Standard  Literature 


CHICAGO    AND   NEW    YORK 

HAND,  McNALLY  &  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1900,  1901, 
By  Rand,  McNally  &  Company 

EDUCATION  DEPf* 


THE  PREFACE. 


This  book  continues  the  careful  grading  and  wide  variety 
which  have  characterized  the  earlier  books  in  the  series.  It 
takes  the  pupil  over  a  large  field  of  the  best  literature, 
presenting  as  it  does  characteristic  selections  from  fifty-five 
English  and  American  authors.  Many  of  the  selections  are 
suitable  for  declamation  and  have  an  historical  interest  which 
will  prepare  the  pupil  for  the  study  of  American  history, 
which  often  begins  in  this  grade.  A  number  of  the  selections 
are  informational  in  character  and  new  to  school  readers. 
These  will  have  a  freshness  for  both  teacher  and  pupil. 

Every  effort  should  be  made  to  secure  intelligent  and 
enthusiastic  reading.  Have  the  pupil  read  for  the  thought 
rather  than  for  the  words.  Be  sure  that  he  knows  and  feels 
what  he  is  reading.     Remember  that  reading  is  thinking. 

The  publishers  acknowledge  the  kindness  of  several  prom- 
inent teachers  who  have  given  them,  in  the  preparation  of  the 
text,  the  benefit  of  long  professional  experience. 

The  selections  from  Holmes,  Parton,  Whittier,  and  Lucy 
Larcom  are  used  by  permission  of,  and  special  arrangement 
with,  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  publishers  of  the  works  of 
the  authors  named. 

For  the  use  of  other  valuable  copyrighted  matter,  thanks 
are  extended  to  the  American  Publishing  Company,  The 
Bo  wen-Merrill  Company,  J.  B.  Lippincott  Company,  A.  C. 
McClurg  &  Co.,  Armand  Hawkins,  A.  Pope,  and  Miss  Anna 
Gordon. 

The  publishers  are  also  under  obligations  to  John  Bur- 
roughs, Chauncey  M.  Depew,  and  Henry  Watterson,  for 
permission  to  use  extracts  from  their  works. 

&4J463 


A  LIST  OF  THE  AUTHORS. 


Bacon,  Lord      .    . 
Besant,  Sir  Walter 
'    Bible    .... 
Blaine,  James  G. 
Burke,  Edmund 
Burns,  Robert 
Burroughs,  John 
Byron,  Lord     . 
Cervantes    .    . 


'    Channing,  William  Ellery 


/  f! 


Chateaubriand,  F.  R  A. 

HOATE,  RUFUS  .... 


PAGE 

.     163 

.  190 
47,  49 
.      34 

97 
.  66 
.  94 
45,  50,  126 

52 

91 
139 

28 


Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor  102 


/ 


Depew,  Chauncey  M. 


43 


Eliot,  George 179 

Freeman,  Edward  Augustus  104 


Gayarre,  Charles    .    . 

.      59 

Geikie,  Sir  Archibald  . 

.     170 

Gray,  Thomas   .... 

81 

Green,  John  Richard   . 

.      89 

Halleck,  Fitz- Greene  . 

.      73 

"Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell  56,  58 

Hood,  Thomas  .... 

.     153 

Howell,  Clark     .     .    . 

.     197 

Howland,  George     .    . 
/  Hunt,  Leigh     .... 

.     165 

.     104 

1  Jefferson,  Thomas    .    . 

.       12 

Jerrold,  William  Douglas  129 

Lincoln,  Abraham    .    . 

76,  77 

v/  Longfellow,  Henry  W. 

.  9,15 

Mahony,  Francis  (Father 

Prout) 127 

Markham,  Edwin      .     .    .  195 
McKinley,  William  ...  86 
Newman,  John  Henry  (Car- 
dinal)       138 

Parton,  James 71 

Poe,  Edgar  Allan    ...  132 

Procter,  Adelaide  A.  .     .  185 

Proctor,  Richard  A.     .    .  161 

Riley,  James  Whitcomb    .  142 
Shakspere,  William      .  143, 149 

Smith,  Sydney 182 

Stephens,  Alexander  H.  .  41 

Stevenson,  Robert  Louis  * 
167,  178 

Stoddard,  Richard  Henry  176 

Stowe,  Harriet  Beecher  .  120 

Sumner,  Charles  ....  78 

Swing,  David        ....  37 

Thackeray,  William  M.    .  156 

Timrod,  Henry      ....  32 

Tolstoi,  Count  Leo  N.       .  168 
Washington,  George    .    .195 

Watterson,  Henry   ...  63 

Webster,  Daniel      .    .    .  113 

Whittier,  John  G.    .         .  96 

Willard,  Frances  E.     .    .  136 

Willis,  Nathaniel  Parker  109 


THE  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus  .  .  Henry  W.  Longfellow  ...  9 
The  Character  of  Washington  .  Thomas  Jefferson  ....  12 
Extracts  from  "Evangeline".     .     Henry  W.  Longfellow    ...      15 

Revolutions Rufus  Choate 28 

From  a  Lecture  on  "The  Eloquence  of  Revolutionary  Periods.''1 
Spring Henry  Timrod 32 

The  Death  of  Garfield    ....    James  O.  Blaine 34 

From  a  Memorial  Address  on  "The  Life  and  Character  of  James  Abram 
Garfield." 

Intellectual  Progress David  Swing 37 

From  "Motives  of  Life.11 
Energy Alexander  H.  Stephens  ...      41 

From  an  "Address  before  the  Emory  College  Societies.'0 
The  Higher  Education  ....     Chauncey  M.  Depew ....      43 

From  an  Address  at  the  First  Public  Meeting  of  the  Alumnal  Association 
of  the  University  of  Cincinnati. 

The  Isles  of  Greece Lord  Byron 45 

From  "Don  Juan." 

A  Prayer  of  Moses The  Bible 47 

A  Psalm  of  David The  Bible 49 

The  Ocean Lord  Byron 50 

From  "Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage." 
Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  Panza   .     Cervantes 52 

From  "Don  Quixote." 

The  Old  Man  Dreams  ....  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  ...  56 
The  Chambered  Nautilus  .     .     .     Oliver  Wendell  Holmes    ...      58 

Jackson  at  New  Orleans    .     .     .     Charles  Oayarre 59 

From  the  "History  of  Louisiana." 
Grant Henry  Watterson 63 

From  a  Speech  before  the  Society  of  the  Army  of  the  Tennessee. 

The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night .     .     Robert  Burns 66 

An  Old-Time  District  School      .    James  Parton 71 

From  "The  Life  of  Horace  Greeley." 

Robert  Burns Fi(z-Oreene  Halleck  ....      73 

5 


6  THE  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Dedication  Speech  at  Gettysburg .     Abraham  Lincoln      ....      76 
Sayings  of  Lincoln 77 

The  Employment  of  Time .     .     .     Charles  Sumner 78 

From  a  Lecture  before  the  Boston  Lyceum,  delivered  February  18,  1846. 

Elegy  Written  in  a  Country 

Church- Yard Thomas  Cray 81 

The  End  of  the  War     ....     William  McKinley    ....      86 
From  a  Speech  delivered  at  Omaha,  October  12,  1898. 

Early  England John  Richard  Green  ....      89 

From  "A  Short  History  of  the  English  People." 
Self-Culture William  Ettery  Channing  .     .      91 

From  "An  Address  Introductory  to  the  Franklin  Lectures." 

Waiting John  Burroughs 94 

The  New  Year John  Oreenleaf  Whittier  .     .      96 

From  a  Poem  addressed  to  the  Patrons  of  the  Pennsylvania  Fi-eeman. 

Conciliation  of  America      .     .     .     Edmund  Burke 97 

From  a  Speech  "For  Conciliation  with  the  Colonies.1'' 

Hymn  (Before  Sunrise  in  the  Vale 

of  Chamouni) Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge    .     .     102 

Abou  Ben  Adhem Leigh  Hunt 104 

The  Battle  of  Hastings  ....    Edwnrd  Augustus  F'eeman     .     104 

Extract  from  "A  Short  History  of  the  Norman  Conquest." 

Absalom Nathaniel  Parker  Willis    .     .     109 

First  Oration  on  Bunker  Hill 

Monument Daniel  Webster 113 

From  a  Speech  made  on  the  Laying  of  the  Corner  Stone  of  Bunker  Hill 
Monument,  June  17,  1825. 

The  St.  Bernard  Hospice    .     .    .     Harriet  Beecher  Stowe  .     .     .     120 
From  the  M  Ascent  to  St.  Bernard  "  in  "  Sunny  Memories  of  Foreign  Lands." 

The  Shandon  Bells Francis  Mahony  {Father  Prout)  127 

Mrs.  Caudle's  Umbrella  Lecture  .     Douglas  William  Jerrold    .     .     129 
From  "Mrs.  Caudle's  Curtain  Lectures." 

The  Bells Edgar  Allan  Poe 132 

Extract  From  "Turn  on  the  Light "  Frances  E.  Willard  .     .     .     .  136 
The  Pillar  of  Cloud  (Lead,  Kindly 

Light) Cardinal  Newman     ....  138 

Two  Views  of  Nature    ....     Chateaubriand 139 

From  the  "Genius  of  Christianity." 


THE  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


$ 


The  King James  Whitcomb  Riley 

Brutus  and  Cassius William  Shakspere     . 

From  "Julius  Caesar." 

Hamlet William  Shakspere     . 

From  "Hamlet.11 

The  Song  of  the  Shirt  ....  Thomas  Hood  .     .     . 

Oliver  Goldsmith William  M.  Thackeray 

From  "The  English  Humorists  of  the  Eighteenth  Century." 

The  Moon .    Richard  A.  Proctor  . 

From  "Half-Hours  with  the  Sun  and  Moon." 

Of  Studies Lord  Bacon .... 

Alone George  Howland    .     . 

Sing  Me  a  Song  of  a  Lad  That 

is  Gone Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

On  the  Road  to  Moscow    .     .     .     Count  Leo  N.  Tolstoi 

From  "Childhood,  Boyhood,  Youth." 
My  First  Geological  Trip   .     .     .     Sir  Archibald  Oeikie 

From  "Geological  Sketches  at  Home  and  Abroad." 

The  South Richard  Henry  Stoddard 

The  Vagabond Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

Dorlcote  Mill George  Eliot      .     . 

From  "The  Mill  on  the  Floss.11 
Labor  and  Genius Sydney  Smith  .     . 

From  "On  the  Conduct  of  the  Understanding." 

A  Legend  of  Bregenz    ....     Adelaide  A.  Procter 

The  Invention  of  Printing      .     .     Sir  Walter  Besant 
From  "Westminster." 

A  Prayer Edwin  Markham  . 

Advice  to  a  Favorite  Nephew     .     George  Washington 
From  a  Letter  to  Bushrod  Washington. 

Our  Reunited  Country  ....     Clark  Howell    .     . 

From  a  Speech  delivered  at  the  Peace  Jubilee,  Chicago,  October  19 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


THE 

NEW  CENTURY  READER, 

NUMBER  SIX. 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS. 

HENRY   W.    LONGFELLOW. 

It  was  the  schooner  Hesperus, 

That  sailed  the  wintry  sea ; 
And  the  skipper  had  taken  his  little  daughter, 

To  bear  him  company. 

Blue  were  her  eyes  as  the  fairy-flax, 
Her  cheeks  like  the  dawn  of  day, 

And  her  bosom  white  as  the  hawthorn  buds, 
That  ope  in  the  month  of  May. 

The  skipper  he  stood  beside  the  helm, 

His  pipe  was  in  his  mouth, 
And  he  watched  how  the  veering  flaw  did  blow 

The  smoke  now  West,  now  South. 

Then  up  and  spake  an  old  Sailor, 
Had  sailed  to  the  Spanish  Main, 
"I  pray  thee,  put  into  yonder  port, 
For  I  fear  a  hurricane. 

"Last  night,  the  moon  had  a  golden  ring, 
And  to-night  no  moon  we  see!" 
The  skipper,  he  blew  a  whiff  from  his  pipe, 
And  a  scornful  laugh  laughed  he. 
8  9 


]  0  TlTEjNEW  CENTl'll  V  EEA  DEB, 

Colder  and  louder  blew  the  wind, 

A  gale  from  the  Northeast, 
The  snow  fell  hissing  in  the  brine, 

And  the  billows  frothed  like  yeast. 

Down  came  the  storm,  and  smote  amain 

The  vessel  in  its  strength ; 
She  shuddered  and  paused,  like  a  frighted  steed, 

Then  leaped  her  cable's  length. 

"Come  hither!    come  hither!    my  little  daughter, 
And  do  not  tremble  so; 
For  I  can  weather  the  roughest  gale 
That  ever  wind  did  blow." 

He  wrapped  her  warm  in  his  seaman's  coat 

Against  the  stinging  blast; 
He  cut  a  rope  from  a  broken  spar, 

And  bound  her  to  the  mast. 

uO  father!   I  hear  the  church-bells  ring, 

Oh  say,  what  may  it  be?" 
"'Tis  a  fog-bell  on  a  rock-bound  coast!" — 

And  he  steered  for  the  open  sea. 

"O  father!   I  hear  the  sound  of  guns, 

Oh  say,  what  may  it  be?" 
"Some  ship  in  distress,  that  can  not  live 

In  such  an  angry  sea!" 

"O  father!   I  see  a  gleaming  light, 
Oh  say,  what  may  it  be?" 
But  the  father  answered  never  a  word, 
A  frozen  corpse  was  he. 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS.  11 

Lashed  to  the  helm,  all  stiff  and  stark, 

With  his  face  turned  to  the  skies, 
The  ]  an  tern  gleamed  through  the  gleaming  snow 

On  his  fixed  and  glassy  eyes. 

Then  the  maiden  clasped  her  hands  and  prayed 

That  saved  she  might  be ; 
And  she  thought  of  Christ,  who  stilled  the  wave, 

On  the  Lake  of  Galilee. 

And  fast  through  the  midnight  dark  and  drear, 
Through  the  whistling  sleet  and  snow, 

Like  a  sheeted  ghost,  the  vessel  swept 
Tow'rds  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe. 

And  ever  the  fitful  gusts  between 

A  sound  came  from  the  land; 
It  was  the  sound  of  the  trampling  surf 

On  the  rocks  and  the  hard  sea-sand. 

The  breakers  were  right  beneath  her  bows, 

She  drifted  a  dreary  wreck, 
And  a  whooping  billow  swept  the  crew 

Like  icicles  from  her  deck. 

She  struck  where  the  white  and  fleecy  waves 

Looked  soft  as  carded  wool, 
But  the  cruel  rocks,  they  gored  her  side 

Like  the  horns  of  an  angry  bull. 

Her  rattling  shrouds,  all  sheathed  in  ice, 
With  the  masts  went  by  the  board; 

Like  a  vessel  of  glass,  she  stove  and  sank, 
Ho  !   ho  !   the  breakers  roared ! 


'  12  THE  NEW  CENTUR  Y  READER 

At  daybreak,  on  the  bleak  sea-beach, 

A  fisherman  stood  aghast, 
To  see  the  form  of  a  maiden  fair, 

Lashed  close  to  a  drifting  mast. 

The  salt  sea  was  frozen  on  her  breast, 

The  salt  tears  in  her  eyes ; 
And  he  saw  her  hair,  like  the  brown  sea-weed, 

On  the  billows  fall  and  rise. 

Snch  was  the  wreck  of  the  Hesperns, 

In  the  midnight  and  the  snow! 
Christ  save  ns  all  from  a  death  like  this, 

On  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe ! 

a  main',  violently;  furiously.  schoon'  er,  a  small  sailing  vessel. 

card'  ed,  combed  with  a  card.  skip'  per,  the  master  of  a  vessel. 

fair'  y-flax,  the  dwarf  flax,  the  flowers  stark,  rigid. 

blue.  stove,  burst;  broke  in. 

flaw,  a  gust  of  wind.  veer'  ing,  changing;  turning. 
haw'  thorn,  a  shrub,  the  flowers  usually 

white. 


THE  CHARACTER  OF  WASHINGTON. 

THOMAS  JEFFERSON. 

I  think  I  knew  General  Washington  intimately 
and  thoroughly,  and  were  I  called  on  to  delineate 
his  character,  it  should  be  in  terms  like  these: 

His  mind  was  great  and  powerful,  without  being  of 
the  very  first  order,  his  penetration  strong,  though 
not  so  acute  as  that  of  a  Newton,  Bacon,  or  Locke ; 
and  as  far  as  he  saw,  no  judgment  was  ever  sounder. 

It  was  slow  in  operation,  being  little  aided  by  in- 
vention or  imagination,  but  sure  in  conclusion.  Hence 
the  common  remark  of  his  officers,  of  the  advantage  he 


THE  CHARACTER  OF  WASHINGTON.  13 

derived  from  councils  of  war,  where,  hearing  all  sug- 
gestions, lie  selected  whatever  was  best ;  and  certainly 
no  general  ever  planned  his  battles  more  judiciously. 

But  if  deranged  during  the  course  of  the  action, 
if  any  member  of  his  plan  was  dislocated  by  sudden 
circumstances,  he  was  slow  in  readjustment.  The 
consequence  was,  that  he  often  failed  in  the  field, 
and  rarely  against  an  enemy  in  station,  as  at  Boston 
and  New  York.  He  was  incapable  of  fear,  meeting 
personal  dangers  with  the  calmest  unconcern. 

Perhaps  the  strongest  feature  in  his  character  was 
prudence ;  never  acting  until  every  circumstance, 
every  consideration,  was  maturely  weighed ;  refrain- 
ing if  he  saw  a  doubt,  but,  when  once  decided, 
going  through  with  his  purpose,  whatever  obstacles 
opposed.  His  integrity  was  most  pure,  his  justice 
the  most  inflexible  I  have  ever  known,  no  motives 
of  interest  or  consanguinity,  of  friendship  or  hatred, 
being  able  to  bias  his  decision. 

He  was,  indeed,  in  every  sense  of  the  words,  a 
wise,  a  good,  and  a  great  man.  His  temper  was 
naturally  irritable  and  high-toned ;  but  reflection 
and  resolution  had  obtained  a  firm  and  habitual 
ascendency  over  it.  If  ever,  however,  it  broke  its 
bounds,  he  was  most  tremendous  in  his  wrath. 

In  his  expenses  he  was  honorable,  but  exact ; 
liberal  in  contributions  to  whatever  promised  utility  ; 
but  frowning  and  unyielding  on  all  visionary  proj- 
ects, and  all  unworthy  calls  on  his  charity.  His 
heart  was  not  warm  in  its  affections ;  but  he  exactly 
calculated  every  man's  value,  and  gave  him  a  solid 
esteem  proportioned  to  it. 

His    person,    you    know,    was    fine,    his    stature 


14  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER 

exactly  what  one  would  wish,  his  deportment  easy, 
erect,  and  noble ;  the  best  horseman  of  his  age,  and 
the  most  graceful  figure  that  could  be  seen  on  horse- 
back. Although  in  the  circle  of  his  friends,  where  he 
might  be  unreserved  with  safety,  he  took  a  free 
share  in  conversation,  his  colloquial  talents  were 
not  above  mediocrity,  possessing  neither  copiousness 
of  ideas,  nor  fluency  of  words. 

In  public,  when  called  on  for  a  sudden  opinion, 
he  was  unready,  short,  and  embarrassed.  Yet  he 
wrote  readily,  rather  diffusely,  in  an  easy  and  cor- 
rect style.  This  he  had  acquired  by  conversation 
with  the  world,  for  his  education  was  merely  read- 
ing, writing,  and  common  arithmetic,  to  which  he 
added  surveying  at  a  later  day.  His  time  was  em- 
ployed in  action  chiefly,  reading  little,  and  that 
only  in  agriculture  and  English  history.  His  cor- 
respondence became  necessarily  extensive,  and,  with 
journalizing  his  agricultural  proceedings,  occupied 
most  of  his  leisure  hours  within  doors. 

On  the  whole  his  character  was,  in  its  mass,  per- 
fect, in  nothing  bad,  in  few  points  indifferent;  and 
it  may  truly  be  said,  that  never  did  nature  and 
fortune  combine  more  perfectly  to  make  a  man 
great,  and  to  place  him  in  the  same  constellation 
with  whatever  worthies  have  merited  from  man  an 
everlasting  remembrance.  For  his  was  the  singular 
destiny  and  merit,  of  leading  the  armies  of  his 
country  successfully  through  an  arduous  war  for  the 
establishment  of  its  independence,  of  conducting  its 
councils  through  the  birth  of  a  government,  new  in 
its  forms  and  principles,  until  it  had  settled  down 
into  a  quiet  and  orderly  train;  and  of  scrupulously 


EXTRACTS  FROM  "EVANGELINE."  15 

obeying  the  laws  through  the  whole  of  his  career, 
civil  and  military,  of  which  the  history  of  the 
world  furnishes  no  other  example. 

col  lo'  qui  al,  conversatioi  al.  me'  di  oc'  ri  ty,  a  moderate  degree  of 
con'  san  guin'  i  ty  (gwin),  blood  rela-  ability. 

tionsbip.  pen'  e  tra'  tion,  mental  acuteness; 
con'  ver  sa'  tion,   intimate  acquaint-  insight. 

ance  or  association  (obsolete).  re' adjust' ment,  rearrangement. 
ju  di'  cious  ly  (dish'  us),  discreetly; 

skillfully;  wisely. 


EXTRACTS  FROM   "EVANGELINE." 

HENRY    W.    LONGFELLOW. 
GRAND-PRE. 

This  is  the  forest  primeval.  The  murmuring  pines 
and  the  hemlocks, 

Bearded  with  moss,  and  in  garments  green,  indis- 
tinct in  the  twilight, 

Stand  like  Druids  of  eld,  with  voices  sad  and  pro- 
phetic, 

Stand  like  harpers  hoar,  with  beards  that  rest  on 
their  bosoms. 

Loud  from  its  rocky  caverns,  the  deep-voiced  neigh- 
boring ocean 

Speaks,  and  in  accents  disconsolate  answers  the  wail 
of  the  forest. 

This  is  the  forest  primeval ;  but  where  are  the  hearts 

that  beneath  it 
Leaped  like  the  roe,  when  he  hears  in  the  woodland 

the  voice  of  the  huntsman? 
Where  is  the  thatched-roofed  village,  the  home  of 

Acadian  farmers, — 


16  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER 

,  Men  whose  lives  glided  on  like  rivers  that  water  the 
woodlands, 
Darkened  by  shadows  of  earth,   but  reflecting   an 
image  of  heaven? 

Waste  are  those  pleasant  farms,  and  the  farmers  for- 
ever departed! 

Scattered  like  dust  and  leaves,  when  the  mighty 
blasts  of  October 

Seize  them,  and  whirl  them  aloft,  and  sprinkle  them 
far  o'er  the  ocean. 

Naught  but  tradition  remains  of  the  beautiful  vil- 
lage of  Grand-Pre. 


In  the  Acadian  land,  on  the  shores  of  the  Basin  of 

Minas, 
Distant,  secluded,  still,  the  little  village  of  Grand-Pre 
Lay  in  the  fruitful  valley.     Vast  meadows  stretched 

to  the  eastward, 
Giving  the  village  its  name,  and  pasture  to  flocks 

without  number. 
Dikes,   that  the  hands  of  the   farmers  had  raised 

with  labor  incessant, 
Shut  out  the  turbulent  tides ;  but  at  stated  seasons 

the  flood-gates 
Opened,  and  welcomed  the  sea  to  wander  at  will  o'er 

the  meadows. 

West    and    south    there    were    fields    of    flax,    and 

orchards  and  cornfields 
Spreading   afar  and  unfenced  o'er  the  plain ;   and 

away  to  the  northward 


EXTRACTS  FROM  " EVANGELINE."  17 

Blomidon  rose,  and  the  forests  old,  and  aloft  on  the 

mountains 
Sea-fogs  pitched    their   tents,   and  mists   from   the 

mighty  Atlantic 
Looked  on  the  happy  valley,  bnt  ne'er  from  their 

station  descended. 

There,  in  the  midst  of  its  farms,  reposed  the  Acadian 

village. 
Strongly  built  were  the  houses,  with  frames  of  oak 

and  of  hemlock, 
Such  as  the  peasants  of  Normandy  built  in  the  reign 

of  the  Henries. 
Thatched  were  the  roofs,  with  dormer-windows ;  and 

gables  projecting 
Over  the  basement  below  protected  and  shaded  the 

doorway. 

There  in  the   tranquil   evenings    of  summer,   when 

brightly  the  sunset 
Lighted  the  village  street,  and  gilded  the  vanes  on 

the  chimneys, 
Matrons  and  maidens  sat  in  snow-white  caps  and  in 

kirtles 
Scarlet  and  blue  and  green,  with  distaffs  spinning 

the  golden 
Flax  for  the  gossiping  looms,  whose  noisy  shuttles 

within  doors 
Mingled  their  sound  with  the  whir  of  the  wheels 

and  the  songs  of  the  maidens. 

Solemnly   down  the  street  came  the  parish  priest, 
and  the  children 


18  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

Paused  in  their  play  to  kiss  the  hand  he  extended 

to  bless  them. 
Reverend  walked  he  among  them;  and  up  rose  matrons 

and  maidens, 
Hailing  his  slow  approach  with  words  of  affectionate 

welcome. 


Then   came  the  laborers  home  from  the  field,  and 

serenely  the  sun  sank 
Down  to  his  rest,  and  twilight  prevailed.     Anon  from 

the  belfry 
Softly  the  Angelus  sounded,  and  over  the  roofs  of 

the  village 
Columns  of  pale  blue  smoke,  like  clouds  of  incense 

ascending, 
Rose  from  a  hundred  hearths,  the  homes  of  peace 

and  contentment. 


Thus  dwelt  together  in  love  these  simple  Acadian 

farmers, — 
Dwelt  in  the  love  of  God  and  of  man.     Alike  were 

they  free  from 
Fear,  that  reigns  with  the  tyrant,  and  envy,  the  vice 

of  republics. 
Neither  locks  had  they  to  their  doors,  nor  bars  to 

their  windows ; 
But  their  dwellings  were  open  as  day  and  the  hearts 

of  the  owners ; 
There  the  richest  was  poor,  and  the  poorest  lived  in 

abundance. 


EXTRA CTS  FROM  ' '  EVANGELINE."  19 

Pleasantly  rose  next  morn  the  sun  on  the  village  of 
Grand-Pre. 

Pleasantly  gleamed  in  the  soft,  sweet  air  the  Basin 
of  Minas, 

Where  the  ships,  with  their  wavering  shadows,  were 
riding  at  anchor. 

Life  had  long  been  astir  in  the  village,  and  clamor- 
ous labor 

Knocked  with  its  hundred  hands  at  the  golden  gates 
of  the  morning. 


Now  from  the  country  around,  from  the  farms  and 
neighboring  hamlets, 

Came  in  their  holiday  dresses  the  blithe  Acadian 
peasants. 

Many  a  glad  good-morrow  and  jocund  laugh  from 
the  young  folk 

Made  the  bright  air  brighter,  as  up  from  the  numer- 
ous meadows, 

Where  no  path  could  be  seen  but  the  track  of  wheels 
in  the  greensward, 

Group  after  group  appeared,  and  joined,  or  passed  on 
the  highway. 

Long  ere  noon,  in  the  village  all  sounds  of  labor  were 

silenced. 
Thronged  were  the  streets  with  people ;    and  noisy 

groups  at  the  house- doors 
Sat  in  the  cheerful  sun,  and  rejoiced  and  gossiped 

together. 
Every  house  was   an   inn,  where  all  were  welcomed 

and  feasted : 


£0  THE  NE  W  CENTUR  Y  HEADER 

For  with  this  simple  people,  who  lived  like  brothers 

together, 
All  things  were  held  in  common,  and  \vhat  one  had 

was  another's. 


Under  the  open  sky,  in  the  odorons  air  of  the 
orchard, 

Stript  of  its'  golden  frnit,  was  spread  the  feast  of 
betrothal. 

There  in  the  shade  of  the  porch  were  the  priest  and 
the  notary  seated ; 

There  good  Benedict  sat,  and  sturdy  Basil  the  black- 
smith. 

Not  far  withdrawn  from  these,  by  the  cider-press 

and  the  beehives, 
Michael  the  fiddler  was  placed,  with  the  gayest  of 

hearts  and  of  waistcoats. 
Shadow  and  light  from  the  leaves  alternately  played 

on  his  snow-white 
Hair,  as  it  waved  in  the  wind ;   and  the  jolly  face 

of  the  fiddler 
Glowed  like  a  living  coal  when  the  ashes  are  blown 

from  the  embers. 

Gayly  the  old  man  sang  to  the  vibrant  sound  of  his 
fiddle, 

And  anon  with  his  wooden  shoes  beat  time  to  the 

music. 
Merrily,  merrily  whirled  the  wheels  of  the  dizzying 

dances 


EXTRACTS  FROM  "  EVANGELINE."  21 

Under  the  orchard-trees  and  down  the  path  to  the 

meadows ; 
Old  folk  and  young  together,  and  children  mingled 

among  them. 


So  passed  the  morning  away.  And  lo  !  with  a  sum- 
mons sonorous 

Sounded  the  bell  from  its  tower,  and  over  the  mead- 
ows a  drum  beat. 

Thronged  erelong  was  the  church  with  men. 
Without,  in  the  churchyard, 

Waited  the  women.  They  stood  by  the  graves,  and 
hung  on  the  headstones 

Garlands  of  autumn-leaves  and  evergreens  fresh 
from  the  forest. 


Then  came  the  guard  from  the  ships,  and  marching 
proudly  among  them 

Entered  the  sacred  portal.  With  loud  and  disso- 
nant clangor 

Echoed  the  sound  of  their  brazen  drums  from  ceil- 
ing and  casement, — 

Echoed  a  moment  only,  and  slowly  the  ponderous 
portal 

Closed,  and  in  silence  the  crowd  awaited  the  will  of 
the  soldiers. 

Then  up  rose  their  commander,  and  spake  from  the 
steps  of  the  altar, 

Holding  aloft  in  his  hands,  with  its  seals,  the  royal 
commission. 


22  THE  NEW  CENTUR  Y  READER. 

"You  are  convened   this   day,"   he  said,    "by  his 

Majesty's  orders. 
Clement  and  kind  has  he  been  ;  but  how  you  have 

answered  his  kindness, 
Let  your  own  hearts  reply !     To  my  natural  make 

and  my  temper 
Painful  the  task  is  I  do,  which  to  you  I  know  must 

be  grievous. 
Yet  must  I  bow  and  obey,  and  deliver  the  will  of 

our  monarch ; 
Namely,    that   all   your   lands,    and  dwellings,  and 

cattle  of  all  kinds 
Forfeited  be  to  the  crown  ;  and  that  you  yourselves 

from  this  province 
Be  transported  to  other  lands.     God  grant  you  may 

dwell  there 
Ever  as  faithful  subjects,    a  happy  and  peaceable 

people ! 
Prisoners  now  I  declare  .you;  for  such  is  his  Majesty's 

pleasure ! " 

As,   when    the    air    is  serene    in    sultry  solstice  of 

summer, 
Suddenly  gathers  a  storm,  and  the  deadly  sling  of 

the  hailstones 
Beats  down  the  farmer's  corn  in  the  field  and  shatters 

his  windows, 
Hiding  the  sun,  and  strewing  the  ground  with  thatch 

from  the  house-roofs, 
Bellowing  fly  the  herds,   and  seek   to  break  their 

enclosures ; 
So  on  the  hearts  of  the  people  descended  the  words 

of  the  speaker. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  "EVANGELINE:'  23 

Silent  a  moment  they  stood  in   speechless  wonder, 

and  then  rose 
Londer  and  ever  louder  a  wail  of  sorrow  and  anger, 
And,  by  one  impulse  moved,  they  madly  rushed  to 

the  door- way. 
Vain  was  the  hope  of  escape ;  and  cries  and  fierce 

imprecations 
Rang  through  the  house  of  prayer ;  and  high  o'er 

the  heads  of  the  others 
Rose,  with  his  arms  uplifted,  the  figure  of  Basil  the 

blacksmith, 
As,  on  a  stormy  sea,  a  spar  is  tossed  by  the  billows. 

Flushed  was  his  face  and  distorted  with  passion  ; 

and  wildly  he  shouted, — 
"Down  with  the  tyrants  of  England  !  we  never  have 

sworn  them  allegiance ! 
Death  to  these  foreign  soldiers,  who  seize  on  our 

homes  and  our  harvests!" 
More  he  fain   would  have   said,   but   the   merciless, 

hand  of  a  soldier 
Smote  him  upon  the  mouth,  and  dragged  him  down 

to  the  pavement. 

In  the  midst  of  the  strife  and  tumult  of  angry  con- 
tention, 

Lo !  the  door  of  the  chancel  opened,  and  Father 
Felician 

Entered,  with  serious  mien,  and  ascended  the  steps 
of  the  altar. 

Raising  his  reverend  hand,  with  a  gesture  he  awed 
into  silence 


24  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER 

All  that  clamorous  throng;   and  thus  he  spake  to 

his  people; 
Deep  were  his  tones  and  solemn  ;  in  accents  measured 

and  mournful 
Spake  he,  as,  after  the  tocsin's  alarum,  distinctly  the 

clock  strikes. 

"  What  is  this  that  ye  do,  my  children?  what  mad- 
ness has  seized  you? 
Forty  years  of  my  life  have  I  labored  among  you, 

and  taught  you, 
Not  in  word  alone,  but  in  deed,  to  love  one  another ! 
Is  this  the  fruit  of  my  toils,  of  my  vigils  and  prayers 

and  privations? 
Have  you  so  soon  forgotten  all  lessons  of  love  and 

forgiveness  ? 
This  is  the  house  of  the  Prince  of  Peace,  and  would 

you  profane  it 
Thus  with  violent  deeds  and  hearts  overflowing  with 

hatred? 
Lo!    where  the  crucified    Christ  from  His  cross  is 

gazing  upon  you! 
See !    in  those  sorrowful    eyes  what  meekness   and 

holy  compassion ! 
Hark!   how  those  lips  still  repeat  the  prayer,    'O 

Father,  forgive  them  ! ' 
Let  us  repeat  that    prayer  in  the   hour  when  the 

wicked  assail  us, 
Let  us  repeat  it  now,  and  say,  cO  Father,  forgive 

them!"' 

Few  were  his  words  of  rebuke,  but  deep  in  the  hearts 
of  his  people 


EXTRACTS  FROM  "EVANGELINE."  25 

Sank  they,   and  sobs  of    contrition    succeeded   the 

passionate  outbreak, 
While  they  repeated  his  prayer,  and  said,  "0  Father, 

forgive  them!" 

#-'-.»■•■■».■'■»'■»',■■■■*  *  * 

Thus  to  the  Gaspereau's  mouth  moved  on  that  mourn- 
ful procession. 

There  disorder  prevailed,  and  the  tumult  and  stir  of 
embarking. 

Busily  plied  the  freighted  boats  ;  and  in  the  confusion 

Wives  were  torn  from  their  husbands,  and  mothers, 
too  late,  saw  their  children 

Left  on  the  land,  extending  their  arms,  with  wildest 
entreaties. 

******  *  * 

Half  the  task  was  not  done  when  the  sun  went  down, 

and  the  twilight 
Deepened  and  darkened  around ;   and  in  haste  the 

refluent  ocean 
Fled  away  from  the  shore,  and  left  the  line  of  the 

sand-beach 
Covered  with  waifs  of  the  tide,  with  kelp  and  the 

slippery  seaweed. 

Farther  back  in  the  midst  of  the  household  goods 

and  the  wagons, 
Like  to  a  gypsy  camp,  or  a  leaguer  after  a  battle, 
All  escape  cut  off  by  the  sea,  and  the  sentinels  near 

them, 
Lay  encamped  for  the  night  the  houseless  Acadian 

farmers. 
******  *  * 

3 


26  THE  NEW  CENTURY  HEADER. 

Suddenly  rose  from  the  south  a  light,  as  in  autumn 

the  blood-red 
Moon  climbs   the  crystal  walls  of  heaven,  and  o'er 

the  horizon 
Titan-like   stretches    its    hundred    hands   upon   the 

mountain  and  meadow, 
Seizing  the   rocks  and  the  rivers   and  piling  huge 

shadows  together. 
Broader  and  ever  broader  it  gleamed  on  the  roofs  of 

the  village, 
Gleamed  on  the  sky  and  sea,  and  the  ships  that  lay 

in  the  roadstead. 

Columns  of  shining  smoke  uprose,  and  flashes  of 
flame  were 

Thrust  through  their  folds  and  withdrawn,  like  the 
quivering  hands  of  a  martyr. 

Then  as  the  wind  seized  the  gleeds  and  the  burning 
thatch,  and,  uplifting, 

Whirled  them  aloft  through  the  air,  at  once  from  a 
hundred  house-tops 

Started  the  sheeted  smoke  with  flashes  of  flame  inter- 
mingled. 


And  as  the  voice  of  the  priest  repeated  the  service 

of  sorrow, 
Lo!  with  a  mournful  sound,  like  the  voice  of  a  vast 

congregation, 
Solemnly  answered  the  sea,  and  mingled  its  roar  with 

the  dirges. 
'Twas  the  returning  tide,  that  afar  from  the  waste  of 

the  ocean, 


EXTRA  CTS  FROM  "  EVANGELINE."  27 

With  the  first  dawn  of  the  day,  came  heaving  and 

hurrying  landward. 
Then  recommenced  once  more,  the  stir  and  noise  of 

embarking ; 
And  with  the  ebb  of  the  tide  the  ships  sailed  out 

of  the  harbor, 
Leaving  behind  them  the  dead  on  the  shore,  and  the 

village  in  ruins. 
#*■*  ■*■*  *  •*  * 

Still  stands  the  forest  primeval ;  but  under  the  shade 

of  its  branches 
Dwells   another  race,  with   other   customs  and  lan- 
guage. 
Only  along  the   shore   of  the  mournful   and  misty 

Atlantic 
Linger  a  few  Acadian  peasants,  whose  fathers  from 

exile 
Wandered  back  to  their  native  land  to  die  in  its 

bosom. 

In  the  fisherman's  cot  the  wheel  and  the  loom  are 
still  busy ; 

Maidens  still  wear  their  Norman  caps  and  their  kir- 
tles  of  homespun, 

And  by  the  evening  fire  repeat  Evangeline's  story, 

While  from  its  rocky  caverns  the  deep-voiced,  neigh- 
boring ocean 

Speaks,  and  in  accents  disconsolate  answers  the  wail 
of  the  forest. 

a  lar'  um,  signal;  warning.  ref  lu  ent,  ebbing;  surging  back. 

An'  gel  us,  bell  for  prayer.  sol'  stice,  the  time  at  which  the  sun  is 
con  tri'  tion,  sincere  penitence.  farthest  from  the  equator. 

in'  pre  ca'  tion,  curse.  toe'  sin,  public  alarm  bell. 

pri  me'  val,  of  or  belonging  to  the  first  tur'  bu  lent,  restless, 
ages;  original. 


28  THE  NE  W  CENTUR  T  READER. 


REVOLUTIONS. 

RUFUS   CHOATE. 

{Extract  from  a  lecture  on  "  The  Eloquence  of  Revolutionary  Periods.") 

Turn,  now,  to  another  form  of  revolution  alto- 
gether. Turn  to  a  revolution  in  which  a  people, 
who  were  not  yet  a  nation,  became  a  nation, —  one 
of  the  great,  creative  efforts  of  history,  her  rarest, 
her  grandest,  one  of  her  marked  and  widely  sep- 
arated geological  periods,  in  which  she  gathers  up 
the  formless  and  wandering  elements  of  a  pre- 
existing nature,  and  shapes  them  into  a  new  world, 
over  whose  rising  the  morning  stars  might  sing 
again. 

And  these  revolutions  have  an  eloquence  of  their 
own,  also;  but  how  unlike  that  other, — exultant, 
trustful,  reasonable,  courageous !  The  cheerful  and 
confident  voice  of  young,  giant  strength  rings 
through  it, — the  silver  clarion  of  his  hope  that 
sounds  to  an  awakening,  to  an  onset,  to  a  festival 
of  glory,  preparing!  preparing! — his  look  of  fire 
now  fixed  on  the  ground,  now  straining  toward  the 
distant  goal ;  his  heart  assured  and  high,  yet  throb- 
bing with  the  heightened,  irregular  pulsations  of  a 
new  consciousness,  beating  unwontedly, —  the  first, 
delicious,  strange,  feeling  of  national  life. 

Twice  within  a  century  men  have  heard  that 
eloquence.  They  heard  it  once  when,  in  1782,  Ire- 
land, in  arms,  had  extorted  —  in  part  from  the 
humiliation  and  necessities  of  England,  in  part  from 
the  justice  of  a  new  administration  —  the  independ- 
ence of  her  parliament  and  her  judiciary, 


BEVOLUTIONS.  29 

"  That  one  lucid  interval  snatched  from  the  gloom 

And  the  madness  of  ages,  when  filled  with  one  soul, 
A  nation  overleaped  the  dark  bounds  of  her  doom, 
And  for  one  sacred  instant  touched  liberty's  goal, — " 

and  Mr.  Grattan,  rising  slowly  in  her  House  of 
Commons,  said:  "I  am  now  to  address  a  free  peo- 
ple; ages  have  passed  away,  and  this  is  the  first 
moment  in  which  you  could  be  distinguished  by 
that  appellation .  I  found  Ireland  on  her  knees ;  I 
watched  over  her  with  an  eternal  solicitude.  I  have 
traced  her  progress  from  injuries  to  arms,  from  arms 
to  liberty.  Spirit  of  Swift,  spirit  of  Molyneux, 
your  genius  has  prevailed !  Ireland  is  now  a  nation. 
In  that  character,  I  hail  her;  and,  bowing  to  her 
august  presence,  I  say,  Live  Forever!" 

Men  heard  that  eloquence  in  1776,  in  that  mani- 
fold and  mighty  appeal  by  the  genius  and  wisdom 
of  that  new  America,  to  persuade  the  people  to 
take  on  the  name  of  nation,  and  begin  its  life.  By 
how  many  pens  and  tongues  that  great  pleading 
was  conducted;  through  how  many  months,  before 
the  date  of  the  actual  Declaration,  it  went  on,  day 
after  day ;  in  how  many  forms,  before  how  many 
assemblies,  from  the  village  newspaper,  the  more 
careful  pamphlet,  the  private  conversation,  the  town- 
meeting,  the  legislative  bodies  of  particular  colonies, 
up  to  the  Hall  of  the  immortal  old  Congress,  and 
the  master  intelligences  of  lion  heart  and  eagle  eye, 
that  ennobled  it, — all  this  you  know. 

But  the  leader  in  that  great  argument  was  John 
Adams,  of  Massachusetts.  He,  by  concession  of  all 
men,  was  the  orator  of  that  revolution, — the 
revolution  in  which  a -nation  was  born.     Other  and 


30  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

renowned  names,  by  written  or  spoken  eloquence, 
cooperated  effectively,  splendidly,  to  the  grand 
result, —  Samuel  Adams,  Samuel  Chase,  Jefferson, 
Henry,  James  Otis  in  an  earlier  stage.  Each  of 
these,  and  a  hundred  more,  within  circles  of 
influence  wider  or  narrower,  sent  forth,  scattering 
broadcast,  the  seed  of  life  in  the  ready,  virgin  soil. 

Each  brought  some  specialty  of  gift  to  the  work : 
Jefferson,  the  magic  of  style,  and  the  habit  and 
the  power  of  delicious  dalliance  with  those  large, 
fair  ideas  of  freedom  and  equality,  so  dear  to  man, 
so  irresistible  in  that  day;  Henry,  the  indescribable 
and  lost  spell  of  the  speech  of  the  emotions,  which 
fills  the  eye,  chills  the  blood,  turns  the  cheek  pale, 
—  the  lyric  phase  of  eloquence,  the  "fire-water,"  as 
Lamartine  has  said,  of  the  revolution,  instilling  into 
the  sense  and  the  soul  the  sweet  madness  of  battle  ; 
Samuel  Chase,  the  tones  of  anger,  confidence,  and 
pride,  and  the  art  to  inspire  them. 

John  Adams's  eloquence  alone  seemed  to  have  met 
every  demand  of  the  time.  As  a  question  of  right, 
as  a  question  of  prudence,  as  a  question  o£  imme- 
diate opportunity,  as  a  question  of  feeling,  as  a 
question  of  conscience,  as  a  question  of  historical 
and  durable  and  innocent  glory,  he  knew  it  all, 
through  and  through ;  and  in  that  mighty  debate, 
which,  beginning  in  Congress  as  far  back  as  March 
or  February,  1776,  had  its  close  on  the  second,  and  on 
the  fourth  of  July,  he  presented  it  in  all  its  aspects, 
to  every  passion  and  affection, — to  the  burning  sense 
of  wrong,  exasperated  at  length  beyond  control  by 
the  shedding  of  blood ;  to  grief,  anger,  self-respect ; 
to  the  desire  of  happiness  and  of  safety;    to  the 


REVOLUTIONS.  31 

sense  of  moral  obligation,  commanding  that  the 
duties  of  life  are  more  than  life ;  to  courage,  which 
fears  God,  and  knows  no  other  fear ;  to  that  large 
and  heroical  ambition  which  would  build  States, 
that  imperial  philanthropy  which  would  open  to 
liberty  an  asylum  here,  and  give  to  the  sick  heart, 
hard  fare,  fettered  conscience  of  the  children  of  the 
Old  World,  healing,  plenty,  and  freedom  to  worship 
God, — to  these  passions,  and  these  ideas,  he  presented 
the  appeal  for  months,  day  after  day,  until,  on  the 
third  of  July,  1776,  he  could  record  the  result, 
writing  thus  to  his  wife:  "Yesterday,  the  greatest 
question  was  decided  which  ever  was  debated  in 
America ;  and  a  greater,  perhaps,  never  was,  nor 
will  be,  among  men." 

Of  that  series  of  spoken  eloquence  all  is  perished ; 
not  one  reported  sentence  has  come  down  to  us. 
The  voice  through  which  the  rising  spirit  of  a  young 
nation  sounded  out  its  dream  of  life  is  hushed.  The 
great  spokesman,  of  an  age  unto  an  age,  is  dead. 

And  yet  of  those  lost  words  is  not  our  whole 
America  one  immortal  record  and  reporter?  Do  ye 
not  read  them,  deep  cut,  defying  the  tooth  of  time, 
on  all  the  marble  of  our  greatness  ?  How  they  blaze 
on  the  pillars  of  our  Union !  How  is  their  deep 
sense  unfolded  and  interpreted  by  every  passing 
hour !  how  do  they  come  to  life,  and  grow  audible, 
as  it  were,  in  the  brightening  rays  of  the  light  he 
foresaw,  as  the  fabled  invisible  harp  gave  out  its 
music  to  the  morning ! 

Yes,  in  one  sense  they  are  perished.  No  parch- 
ment manuscript,  no  embalming  printed  page,  no 
certain  traditions  of  living  or  dead,  have  kept  them. 


32  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

Yet,  from  out,  and  from  off,  all  things  around  us,— 
our  laughing  harvests,  our  songs  of  labor,  our  com- 
merce on  all  the  seas,  pur  secure  homes,  our  school- 
houses  and  churches,  our  happy  people,  our  radiant 
and  stainless  flag, — how  they  come  pealing,  pealing, 
Independence  now,  and  Independence  forever ! 

ap  pel  la'  tion,  a  name;  a  title.  ge'  o  log'  ic  al,  pertaining  to  the  science 

con  ces'  sion,  admission.  of  the  earth. 

ex  tort'  ed,  gained  by  force.  on'  set,  a  rushing  or  setting  upon. 

ex  ult'  ant,  rejoicing  as  if  in  triumph.         phi  Ian'  thro  py,  love  of  mankind 

generally. 


SPRING. 


HENRY    TIM  ROD. 


Spring,  with  that  nameless  pathos  in  the  air 
Which  dwells  with  all  things  fair, 

Spring,  with  her  golden  suns  and  silver  rain, 
Is  with  us  once  again. 

Out  in  the  lonely  woods  the  jasmine  burns 

Its  fragrant  lamps,  and  turns 
Into  a  royal  court  with  green  festoons 

The  banks  of  dark  lagoons. 

In  the  deep  heart  of  every  forest  tree 

The  blood  is  all  aglee, 
And  there's  a  look  about  the  leafless  bowers 

As  if  they  dreamed  of  flowers. 

Yet  still  on  every  side  we  trace  the  hand 

Of  Winter  in  the  land, 
Save  where  the  maple  reddens  on  the  lawn, 

Flushed  by  the  season's  dawn. 


SPRING.  33 

Or  where,  like  those  strange  semblances  we  find 

That  age  to  childhood  bind, 
The  elm  puts  on,  as  if  in  Nature's  scorn, 

The  brown  of  Autumn  corn. 

As  yet  the  turf  is  dark,  although  you  know 

That,  not  a  span  below, 
A  thousand  germs  are  groping  through  the  gloom, 

And  soon  will  burst  their  tomb. 

Already,  here  and  there,  on  frailest  stems 

Appear  some  azure  gems, 
Small  as  might  deck,  upon  a  gala  day, 

The  forehead  of  a  fay. 

In  gardens  you  may  note  amid  the  dearth 

The  crocus  breaking  earth; 
And  near  the  snowdrop's  tender  white  and  green, 

The  violet  in  its  screen. 

But  many  gleams  and  shadows  needs  must  pass 

Along  the  budding  grass, 
And  weeks  go  by  before  the  enamored  South 

Shall  kiss  the  rose's  mouth, 

Still  there's  a  sense  of  blossoms  yet  unborn 

In  the  sweet  airs  of  morn : 
One  almost  looks  to  see  the  very  street 

Grow  purple  at  his  feet. 

At  times  a  fragrant  breeze  comes  floating  by, 

And  brings,  you  know  not  why, 
A  feeling  as  when  eager  crowds  await 

Before  a  palace  gate 


34  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER 

Some  wonderous  pageant;  and  you  scarce  would  start, 

If,  from  a  beech's  heart, 
A  blue-eyed  Dryad,  stepping  forth,  should  say, 

"Behold  me!     I  am  May!" 

*  *  *  -*  *•*** 


THE  DEATH  OF  GARFIELD.     - 

JAMES   G.   BLAINE. 

(From  a  Memorial  Address  on  "  The  Life  and  Character  of  James  Abram  Garfield.") 

On  the  morning  of  Saturday,  July  second,  the 
President  was  a  contented  and  happy  man.  He  felt 
that  after  four  months  of  trial  his  administration 
was  strong  in  popular  favor ;  that  grave  difficulties 
confronting  him  at  his  inauguration  had  been  safely 
passed;  that  trouble  lay  behind  him  and  not  before 
him ;  that  he  was  going  to  his  alma  mater  to  renew 
the  most  cherished  associations  of  his  young  man- 
hood, and  to  exchange  greetings  with  those  whose 
deepening  interest  had  followed  every  step  of  his 
upward  progress  from  the  day  he  entered  upon  his 
college  course  until  he  had  attained  the  loftiest  ele- 
vation in  the  gift  of  his  countrymen. 

Surely,  if  happiness  can  ever  come  from  the  hon- 
ors or  triumphs  of  this  world,  on  that  quiet  July 
morning  James  A.  Garfield  may  well  have  been  a 
happy  man.  No  foreboding  of  evil  haunted  him ; 
no  slightest  premonition  of  danger  clouded  his  sky. 
His  terrible  fate  was  upon  him  in  an  instant.  One 
moment  he  stood  erect,  strong,  confident  in  the 
years  stretching  peacefully  before  him.  The  next 
he  lay  wounded,  bleeding,  helpless,  doomed  to  weary 
weeks  of  torture,  to  silence,  and  the  grave. 


THE  DEATH  OF  GARBTELD.  35 

Great  in  life,  he  was  surpassingly  great  in  death. 
For  no  cause,  in  the  very  frenzy  of  wantonness  and 
wickedness,  by  the  red  hand  of  murder,  he  was 
thrust  from  the  full  tide  of  this  world's  interests, 
from  its  hopes,  its  aspirations,  its  victories,  into  the 
visible  presence  of  death  —  and  he  did  not  quail. 
Not  alone  for  the  one  short  moment  in  which, 
stunned  and  dazed,  he  could  give  up  life,  hardly 
aware  of  its  relinquishment,  but  through  days  of 
deadly  languor,  through  weeks  of  agony,  that  was 
not  less  agony  because  silently  borne,  with  clear  sight, 
and  calm  courage,  he  looked  into  his  open  grave. 

What  blight  and  ruin  met  his  anguished  eyes, 
whose  lips  may  tell  —  what  brilliant,  broken  plans, 
what  baffled,  high  ambitions,  what  sundering  of 
strong,  warm,  manhood's  friendships,  what  bitter 
rending  of  sweet  household  ties !  Behind  him  a 
proud,  expectant  nation,  a  great  host  of  sustaining 
friends,  a  cherished  and  happy  mother,  wearing  the 
full  rich  honors  of  her  early  toil  and  tears ;  the  wife 
of  his  youth,  whose  whole  life  lay  in  his;  the  little 
boys  not  yet  emerged  from  childhood's  day  of  frolic; 
the  fair  young  daughter ;  the  sturdy  sons  just  spring- 
ing into  closest  companionship,  claiming  every  day 
and  every  day  rewarding  a  father's  love  and  care; 
and  in  his  heart  the  eager,  rejoicing  power  to  meet 
all  demand.  Before  him,  desolation  and  great  dark- 
ness !    And  his  soul  was  not  shaken. 

His  countrymen  were  thrilled  with  instant,  pro- 
found, and  universal  sympathy.  Masterful  in  his 
mortal  weakness,  enshrined  in  the  prayers  of  a 
world,  all  the  love  and  all  the  sympathy  could  not 
share   with   him   his   suffering.     He   trod  the  wine- 


36  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

press  alone.  With  unfaltering  front  lie  faced  death. 
With  unfailing  tenderness  he  took  leave  of  life. 
Above  the  demoniac  hiss  of  the  assassin's  bullet  he 
heard  the  voice  of  God.  With  simple  resignation 
he  bowed  to  the  divine  decree. 

As  the  end  drew  near,  his  early  craving  for  the 
sea  returned.  The  stately  mansion  of  power  had 
been  to  him  the  wearisome  hospital  of  pain,  and  he 
begged  to  be  taken  from  its  prison  walls,  from  its 
oppressive,  stifling  air,  from  its  homelessness  and  its 
hopelessness.  Gently,  silently,  the  love  of  a  great 
people  bore  the  pale  sufferer  to  the  longed-for  heal- 
ing of  the  sea,  to  live  or  to  die,  as  God  should  will, 
within  sight  of  its  heaving  billows,  within  sound  of 
its  manifold  voices.  With  wan,  fevered  face  tenderly 
lifted  to  the  cooling  breeze,  he  looked  wistfully  out 
upon  the  ocean's  changing  wonders;  on  its  far  sails, 
whitening  in  the  morning  light ;  on  its  restless  waves, 
rolling  shoreward  to  break  and  die  beneath  the  noon- 
day sun;  on  the  red  clouds  of  evening,  arching  low  to 
the  horizon ;  on  the  serene  and  shining  pathway  of 
the  stars.  Let  us  think  that  his  dying  eyes  read  a 
mystic  meaning  which  only  the  rapt  and  parting 
soul  may  know.  Let  us  believe  that  in  the  silence 
of  the  receding  world  he  heard  the  great  waves 
breaking  on  a  further  shore,  and  felt  already  upon 
his  wasted  brow  the  breath  of  the  eternal  morning. 

ad  min'  is  tra'  tion,  direction;  govern-  in  au'  gu  ra'  tion,  act  of  inaugurating 
ment  of  public  affairs.  or  introducing  into  office. 

al'  ma  ma'  ter,  term  employed  by  stu-  in'  spi  ra'  tion,  elevating  influence, 

dents  to  designate  the  college  where  pre'  mo  ni'  tion,  forewarning, 

they  were  educated.  sur  pass'  ing  1  y, extremely ;  exceedingly. 

tie  mu'niac,  like  a  demon;  wicked;cruel.  wan' ton  ness  (tun),  unrestrained  reck- 

fren'zy,  madness;  delirium.  lessness. 


INTELLECTUAL  PROGRESS.  37 

INTELLECTUAL  PROGRESS. 

DAVID   SWING. 

{From  "Motives  of  Life  "  —  A.  C.  Mc  Clurg  dc  Co.,  Publishers.) 

To  possess  a  cultivated  mind,  and  to  have  some 
general  knowledge  of  the  world  around  us,  both  in 
its  material  and  living  kingdoms,  is  such  a  hunger 
of  the  soul  that  it  may  be  called  an  instinct.  There 
are  tribes  of  savages  so  low  in  mental  action  that 
they  have  no  desire  to  add  to  their  stock  of  informa- 
tion. Their  brains  have  never  been  sufficiently 
aroused  to  enable  them  to  think.  They  have  not 
the  mental  power  that  can  frame  a  regret. 

Sir  John  Lubbock  found  tribes  so  stupid,  and  so 
sleepy,  that  any  remark  he  might  make  to  them 
about  Europe  or  America,  or  about  steamships,  or 
telegraph,  or  railway,  seemed  to  annoy  them  by 
disturbing  their  intellectual  repose.  The  distance 
between  the  uncivilized  races  and  the  civilized  ones 
is  almost  like  that  between  a  walrus-oil  lamp  and 
the  sun.  The  moment  you  pass  into  a  civilized  land, 
ancient  or  modern,  the  mind  is  seen  to  be  awake, 
and  to  be  hungry  for  ideas.  "Give  me  knowledge 
or  I  shall  die,"  has  been  the  plaintive  prayer  of 
almost  countless  millions. 

No  doubt  the  human  race  has  sought  gold  too 
ardently,  and  does  so  still,  but  we  must  not  suffer 
that  passion  to  conceal  from  us  the  fact  that  in  all 
the  many  civilized  centuries,  this  same  race  has 
with  equal  zeal  asked  the  universe  to  tell  man  its 
secrets.  We  have  been  not  only  a  money-seeking 
race,  but  we  have  been  rather  good  children,  and 


38  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

have  studied  hard  the  lessons  on  the  page  of  science 
and  art  and  history.  If,  when  you  look  out  and 
see  millions  rushing  to  and  fro  for  money,  you  feel 
that  man  is  an  idolater,  you  can  partly  dispel  the 
painful  thought  if  you  attempt  to  count  the  multi- 
tude who  in  that  very  hour  are  poring  over  books, 
or  who  in  meditation  are  seeking  the  laws  of  the 
God  of  nature. 

Millions  upon  millions  of  the  young  and  the  old 
are  in  these  days  seeking  at  school  or  at  home,  in 
life's  morn  or  noon  or  evening,  the  facts  of  history 
and  science  and  art  and  religion.  In  order  to  be 
ourselves  properly  impelled  or  enticed  along  life's 
path,  we  must  make  no  wrong  estimate  of  the  influ- 
ences which  are  impelling  mankind,  for  if  we  come 
to  think  that  all  are  worshiping  gold,  we,  too,  despair- 
ing of  all  else,  will  soon  degrade  ourselves  by  bow- 
ing at  the  same  altar.  It  is  necessary  for  us  always 
to  be  just. 

We  must  be  fully  conscious  of  the  fact  that  there 
are  many  feet  hurrying  along  through  the  places  of 
barter,  intent  on  more  gold,  but  so  must  we  be  con- 
scious that  there  is  a  vast  army  of  young  and  old 
who  are  asking  the  great  world  to  come  and  tell 
them  its  great  experience,  and  to  lead  them  through 
its  literature  and  arts,  and  down  the  grand  avenues 
of  history. 

When  the  time  of  our  late  eclipse  drew  near. 
what  a  procession  of  arts  and  of  instruments  moved 
far  out  to  where  the  shadow  would  fall !  And  others 
had  marked  just  where  Mm*  darkness  would  come 
and  the  second  of  its  coming.  As  man  can  measure 
the  width  of  a  river,  and  find  through  what  spaces 


INTELLECTUAL  PROGRESS.  39 

it  flows,  so  modern  learning  marked  out  that  river 
of  shade  and  built  up  its  banks,  and  along  came 
the  brief  night  and  flowed  in  them  most  carefully. 

But  the  astronomer  went  not  alone ;  the  science 
which  can  catch  a  picture  in  an  instant ;  the  science 
which  can  analyze  a  flame  millions  of  miles  dis- 
tant, and  tell  what  is  being  consumed ;  the  science 
which  can  convey  the  true  time  two  thousand  miles 
while  the  excited  heart  beats  once  —  these,  and  that 
grandest  science  which  can  see  the  rings  of  Saturn 
and  the  valleys  of  the  moon,  assembled  on  that 
height  in  the  very  summer  when  we  are  lamenting 
most  that  mankind  knows  no  pursuit  except  that 
of  gold. 

That  Rocky  Mountain  scene  only  faintly  illustrates 
the  intellectual  activity  of  our  era.  If  the  passion 
for  money  is  great  in  our  day,  it  is  also  true  that 
the  intellectual  power  of  the  same  period  is  equally 
colossal.  No  reader,  be  he  ever  so  industrious,  can 
keep  pace  with  the  issue  of  good  books,  and  money 
itself  is  alarmed  lest  the  new  thoughts  and  invention 
of  to-morrow  may  overthrow  its  investment  of  yester- 
day.    Stocks  tremble  at  the  advance  of  intellect. 

A  glory  of  this  intellectual  passion  may  be  found 
in  the  fact  that  it  is  not  confined  to  a  group  of 
scholars,  as  old  inquiry  and  education  were  confined, 
but  like  liberty  and  property,  it  has  passed  over  to 
the  many.  Not  all  the  multitude  of  the  world  are 
gold  seekers,  there  are  tens  of  thousands  of  men,  and 
women  too,  who  are  lovers  of  truth  more  than  of 
money,  and  are  standing  by  the  fountains  of  knowl- 
edge with  no  thought  or  expectation  of  ever  being 
rich.     Education  and  knowledge,  the  power  to  think 


40  THE  NE  W  CENTUR  Y  READER. 

and  to  enjoy  the  thought  of  others,  have  long  since 
transformed  a  cottage  into  a  palace. 

In  the  earliest  history  of  man  this  impulse  began 
to  make  noble  all  who  bowed  to  it.  It  has  orna- 
mented whatever  it  has  touched.  What  it  has 
always  done  it  will  always  do,  and  no  youth  can 
look  into  good  books  for  even  only  a.  few  moments 
each  day,  and  can  take  that  habit  with  him  into 
all  his  or  her  subsequent  life,  without  becoming 
transformed  into  a  new  likeness. 

Among  the  motives  of  life  that  must  urge  us  all 
onward,  let  us  place  the  constant  development  of 
the  mind  and  the  daily  accumulation  of  knowledge. 
This  motive  will  blend  perfectly  with  the  motives 
of  business  and  all  pleasure.  It  displaces  nothing 
of  life's  good,  but  many  of  its  evils.  It  destroys 
idleness,  it;  plucks  the  charm  from  vice,  it  quenches 
the  thirst  for  riches,  it  brings  us  nearer  to  all  times 
and  nations,  and  binds  by  tender  ties  to  all  the 
noble  living  and  to  all  the  noble  dead. 

As  foreign  and  wide  travel  breaks  up  the  local 
prejudices  of  the  mind,  and  makes  all  the  world 
seem  to  be  the  home  of  man  and  all  the  dwellers 
upon  it  to  be  brothers,  so  the  long  and  wide  read- 
ing of  the  world's  truths  beats  down  the  walls  of 
partition  and  transforms  the  reading,  thinking  one 
into  a  better  friend  and  citizen  and  Christian. 

accu'mu  la'  tion,  a  collecting  together;  ex' pec  ta'tion,the  act  of  looking  for- 

act  of  acquiring.  ward  to. 

an'  a  lyze,  to  separate  an  idea  or  thing  i  dol'  a  ter,  a  worshiper  of  idols. 

into  its  parts.  In'  stinct,  natural  inward  impulse. 

as  tron/  o  mer,  one  versed  in  astron-  nied'  i  ta'  tion,  deep  thought. 

omy;  a  scientific  observer  of  the  stars.  prej' u  dice,  opinion  or  judgment 
co  los'  sal,  great.  formed  without  clue  knowledge. 

trans  formed',  changed. 


ENERGY.  41 


ENERGY. 

ALEXANDER    II.    STEPHENS. 

{From  an  " Address  before  the  Emory  College  Societies.") 

I  have  one  other  point  only  to  present  —  that  is, 
energy  and  execution.  And  though  last  in  order, 
it  is  far  from  being  least  in  importance.  By  this  I 
mean  application,  attention,  activity,  perseverance, 
and  untiring  industry  in  that  business  or  pursuit, 
whatever  it  may  be,  which  is  undertaken.  Nothing 
great  or  good  can  ever  be  accomplished  without  labor 
and  toil.  Motion  is  the  law  of  living  nature.  Inac- 
tion is  the  symbol  of  death,  if  it  is  not  death 
itself.  The  hugest  engines,  with  strength  and  capac- 
ity sufficient  to  drive  the  mightiest  ships  ' '  across  the 
stormy  deep,"  are  utterly  useless  without  a  moving 
power. 

Energy  is  the  steam  power,  the  motive  principle 
of  intellectual  capacity.  A  small  body  driven  by  a 
great  force  will  produce  a  result  equal  to,  or  even 
greater,  than  that  of  a  much  larger  body  moved  by 
a  considerably  less  force.  So  it  is  with  minds.  Hence 
we  often  see  men  of  comparatively  small  capacity, 
by  greater  energy  alone,  leave,  and  justly  leave,  their 
superiors  in  natural  gifts  far  behind  them  in  the 
race  for  honors,  distinction,  and  preferment. 

This  is  the  real  vital  force  or  that  principle  in 
human  nature  which  gives  power  and  vim  to  the 
efforts  of  genius  toward  whatever  objects  such  efforts 
may  be  directed.  It  is  this  which  imparts  that  qual- 
ity which  we  designate  by  the  very  expressive  term, 
"force  of  character";  that  which  meets,  defies,  and 


42  THE  NEW  CBNTUB7  HEADER. 

bears  down  all  opposition.  This  is,  perhaps,  the  most 
striking  characteristic  of  those  great  minds  and  intel- 
lects which  never  fail  to  impress  their  names,  their 
views,  ideas,  and  opinions  indelibly  npon  the  history 
of  the  times  in  which  they  live. 

Men  of  this  class  are  those  pioneers  of  thought, 
who,  sometimes  even  "in  advance  of  the  age,"  are 
known  and  marked  in  history  as  originators  and 
discoverers,  or  those  who  overturn  old  orders  and 
systems  of  things  and  build  up  new  ones.  To  this 
class  belong  Columbus,  Luther,  Cromwell,  Watt,  Ful- 
ton, Franklin,  and  Washington.  It  was  to  the  same 
class  that  General  Jackson  belonged.  He  not  only 
had  a  very  clear  conception  of  his  purpose,  but  a  will 
and  energy  to  execute  it.  And  it  is  in  the  same 
class,  or  among  the  first  order  of  men,  that  Henry 
Clay  will  be  assigned  a  place. 

Thrown  upon  life  at  an  early  age,  without  any 
means  or  resources  save  his  natural  powers  and 
abilities,  and  without  the  advantages  of  anything 
above  a  common  school  education,  he  had  nothing 
to  rely  upon  but  himself,  nothing  upon  which  to 
place  a  hope  but  his  own  exertions.  But,  fired  with 
a  high  and  noble  ambition,  he  resolved,  young  as 
he  was,  and  cheerless  as  were  his  prospects,  to  meet 
and"surmount  every  embarrassment  and  obstacle  by 
which  he  was  surrounded. 

His  aims  and  objects  were  high  and  worthy  of 
the  greatest  efforts ;  they  were  not  to  secure  the 
laurels  won  upon  the  battle-field,  but  those  wreaths 
which  adorn  the  brow  of  the  wise,  the  firm,  the 
sagacious  and  far-seeing  statesman.  In  his  life  and 
character    you    have    a    most   striking    example    of 


THE  HIGHER  ED  TIC  A  TION.  43 

what  energy  and  indomitable  perseverance  can  do, 
even  when  opposed  by  the  most  adverse  circum- 
stances. 

ap'  pli  ca'  tion,  the  act  of  fixing  the  o  rig'  i  na'  tor  (ter),  one  who  causes  any- 

mind  upon  something.  thing  to  be  or  to  be  done. 

char'  ac  ter  is'  tic,  a  trait  or  feature  per'  se  ver'  ance,  steady  and  continued 

peculiar  to.  attention  to  any  work. 

ties'  ig  nate,  indicate;  entitle;  name.  pre  fer'  ment,    advancement ;    promo- 

in  del'  i  bly,  so  as  not  to  be  blotted  out  '  tion. 

or  erased.  sa  ga'  cious  (shiis),  keen  to  perceive. 

in  doin'  i  ta  ble,  resolute;  unyielding.  sym'  bol,  an  outward  sign. 


THE  HIGHER  EDUCATION. 

CHAUNCEY    M.    DEPEW. 

{From  an  Address  at  the  First  Public  Meeting  of  the  Alumnal  Association  of  the 
University  of  Cincinnati.) 

It  has  been  my  fortune  for  twenty-five  years  as 
attorney,  as  counsel,  as  business  associate  in  many 
enterprises,  to  become  intimately  acquainted  with 
hundreds  of  men  —  literally  hundreds  of  men  —  who, 
without  any  equipment  whatever  of  education,  have 
accumulated  millions  of  dollars.  I  never  met  with 
one  of  them  whose  regret  was  not  profound  and 
deep  and  poignant  that  he  had  not  an  education. 
I  never  met  one  of  them  who  did  not  lament  either 
the  neglect  of  his  parents,  or  his  own  poor  oppor- 
tunities, that  failed  to  give  him  this  equipment. 
I  never  met  one  of  them  who  did  not  feel  in  the 
presence  of  cultured  people  a  certain  sense  of  mor- 
tification which  no  money  paid  for. 

What  is  success  ?  Is  it  money  ?  How  much  ? 
When  money  gives  a  man  so  much  power  and  influ- 
ence, when  it  gives  him  so  much  position,  when  with 
it  he  can  do  so  much  for  his  family,  for  his  comfort, 


44  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

for  his  culture,  for  the  education  and  the  opportu- 
nities of  his  children,  for  generous  beneficence  to  his 
fellow-man,  one  would  be  a  fool  to  say  that  a  person 
who  made  money  was  not  in  that  respect  a  success. 
But  there  is  a  success  which  may  not  come  to  every- 
body, but  is  still  as  distinct  as  the  millions  and 
more  precious. 

That  man  would  be  false  to  the  first  duty  of 
American  citizenship  and  the  first  duty  that  a  man 
owes  his  family,  who  did  not  use  all  the  powers 
that  God  had  given  him  to  secure  a  position  in  life 
where  his  income  would  sustain  him  in  independence. 
When  a  man  has  once  got  himself  to  a  place  where 
his  income,  of  which  he  is  sure  by  his  exertions,  is 
sufficient  to  enable  him  to  live  comfortably,  he  is 
successful.  When,  in  addition  to  that,  he  has  a 
home,  however  humble,  free  from  mortgage,  and  in 
fee  simple,  he  is  an  American  success.  All  the  rest 
is  mere  addition  —  just  so  much  more  of  the  same 
kind. 

But  there  is  a  success  which  comes  to  the  cultured 
and  the  educated  man,  which  gives  a  pleasure,  a 
joy,  an  exquisite  delight  different  from  anything 
which  money  can  buy.  We  all  know  the  university 
man  and  the  woman  who  has  graduated  from  one 
of  our  first  institutions  for  the  higher  education  of 
girls.  We  all  know  them,  living  in  the  community, 
either  in  professions  or  in  business.  Leaders  in  the 
church  with  their  trained  ability ;  leaders  in  every 
benevolent  and  charitable  enterprise ;  leaders  in 
everything  which  promotes  the  culture  and  the  art 
resources  of  the  town. 

In  these  United  States  of  America  a  liberal  education 


THE  ISLES  OF  GREECE.  45 

is  a  duty.  Here  liberty  rests  upon  the  intelligence 
of  the  people,  and  it  is  pure  or  it  is  base  according 
to  the  character  of  that  intelligence. 

be  nef'  i  cence,  practice  of  doing  good.  in  tel'  li  gence,  acquired  knowledge. 

e  quip'  ment,  outfit.  la  intent/,  regret;  deplore, 

ex'  qui  site,  intense;  keen.  op'  por  tu'  ni  ty,  a  chance. 

fee  sim'  pie,  property  held  absolutely  poign'  ant  (poin),  keen. 

without  condition.  pro  found',  deep-felt;  intense. 


THE  ISLES  OF  GREECE. 

LORD   BYRON. 

(From  "Don  Juan") 

The  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  Greece ! 

Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung, 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace, — 

Where  Delos  rose,  and  Phoebus  sprung ! 
Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet, 
But  all,  except  their  sun,  is  set. 


The  mountains  look  on  Marathon — 
And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea; 

And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 

I  dreamed  that  Greece  might  still  be  free ; 

For  standing  on  the  Persians'  grave, 

I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 

A  king  sate  on  the  rocky  brow 

Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  Salamis; 

And  ships,  by  thousands,  lay  below, 
And  men  in  nations; — all  were  his! 

He  counted  them  at  break  of  day — 

And  when  the  sun  set  where  were  they? 


46  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER 

And  where  are  they?  and  where  art  thou, 
My  country?    On  thy  voiceless  shore 

The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now — 
The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more! 

And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine, 

Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine? 

'Tis  something,  in  the  dearth  of  fame, 
Though  linked  among  a  fettered  race, 

To  feel  at  least  a  patriot's  shame, 
Even  as  I  sing,  suffuse  my  face ; 

For  what  is  left  the  poet  here? 

For  Greeks  a  blush  —  for  Greece  a  tear. 

Must  we  but  weep  o'er  days  more  blest? 

Must  we  but  blush?  —  Our  fathers  bled. 
Earth!  render  back  from  out  thy  breast 

A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead! 
Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three, 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylae ! 

What,  silent  still?  and  silent  all? 

Ah !  no  ;  —  the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a  distant  torrent's  fall, 

And  answer,   "Let  one  living  head, 
But.  one  arise, —  we  come,  we  come!" 

'Tis  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 

#n     ■■    *  *  *  ■*  * 

You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet, 
Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone? 

Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget 
The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one? 

You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave  — 

Think  ye  he  meant  them  for  a  slave  ? 


A  PRAYER  OF  MOSES.  47 

The  tyrant  of  the  Chersonese 

Was  freedom's  best  and  bravest  friend  ; 
That  tyrant  was  Miltiades ! 

0 !  that  the  present  honr  would  lend 
Another  despot  of  the  kind ! 
Such  chains  as  his  were  sure  to  bind. 


Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks  — 
They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells : 

In  native  swords,  and  native  ranks, 
The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells ; 

But  Turkish  force,  and  Latin  fraud, 

Would  break  your  shield,  however  broad. 

*  *  #  *  *  * 

Place  me  on  Sunium's  marbled  steep, 
Where  nothing,  save  the  waves  and  I, 

May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep ; 
There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die : 

A  land  of  slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine  — 

Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samian  wine ! 


A  PRAYER  OF  MOSES. 

( The  Bible.) 

Lord,  thou  hast  been  our  dwelling  place 

In  all  generations. 

Before  the  mountains  were  brought  forth, 

Or    ever   thou    hadst    formed    the    earth    and    the 

world, 
Even  from  everlasting  to  everlasting,  thou  art  God. 


48  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

Thou  turnest  man  to  destruction  ; 

And  say  est,  Return,  ye  children  of  men. 

For  a  thousand  years  in  thy  sight 

Are  but  as  yesterday  when  it  is  past, 

And  as  a  watch  in  the  night. 

Thou  carriest  them  away  as  with  a  flood ;  they  are 

as  a  sleep : 
In  the  morning  they  are  like  grass  which  groweth  up. 
In  the  morning  it  flourisheth,  and  groweth  up ; 
In  the  evening  it  is  cut  down,  and  withereth. 
For  we  are  consumed  in  thine  anger, 
And  in  thy  wrath  are  we  troubled. 
Thou  hast  set  our  iniquities  before  thee, 
Our  secret  sins  in  the  light  of  thy  countenance. 
For  all  our  days  are  passed  away  in  thy  wrath : 
We    bring   our   years    to    an    end    as    a    tale    that 

is  told. 
The  days  of  our  years  are  threescore  years  and  ten, 
Or  even  by  reason  of  strength  fourscore  years ; 
Yet  is  their  pride  but  labour  and  sorrow ; 
For  it  is  soon  gone,  and  we  fly  away. 
Who  knoweth  the  power  of  thine  anger, 
And  thy  wrath  according  to  the  fear  that  is  due 

unto  thee? 
So  teach  us  to  number  our  days, 
That  we  may  get  us  an  heart  of  wisdom. 
Return,  O  Lord;  how  long? 
And  let  it  repent  thee  concerning  thy  servants. 
O  satisfy  us  in  the  morning  with  thy  mercy ; 
That  we  may  rejoice  and  be  glad  all  our  days. 
Make  us  glad  according  to  the  days  wherein  thou 

hast  afflicted  us, 
And  the  years  wherein  we  have  seen  evil. 


A  PSALM  OF  DA  VID.  49 

Let  thy  work  appear  unto  thy  servants, 

And  thy  glory  upon  their  children. 

And  let  the  beauty  of  the  Lord  our  God  be  upon  us : 

And  establish  thou  the  work  of  our  hands  upon  us; 

Yea,  the  work  of  our  hands  establish  thou  it. 

— Psalm  xc. 


A  PSALM  OF  DAVID. 

(The  Bible.) 

The  earth  is  the  Lord's,  and  the  fulness  thereof ; 

The  world,  and  they  that  dwell  therein. 

For  he  hath  founded  it  upon  the  seas, 

And  established  it  upon  the  floods. 

Who  shall  ascend  into  the  hill  of  the  Lord? 

And  who  shall  stand  in  his  holy  place? 

He  that  hath  clean  hands,  and  a  pure  heart ; 

Who  hath  not  lifted  up  his  soul  unto  vanity, 

And  hath  not  sworn  deceitfully. 

He  shall  receive  a  blessing  from  the  Lord, 

And  righteousness  from  the  God  of  his  salvation. 

This  is  the  generation  of  them  that  seek  after  him, 

That  seek  thy  face,  O  God  of  Jacob. 

Lift  up  your  heads,  O  ye  gates ; 

And  be  ye  lift  up,  ye  everlasting  doors : 

And  the  King  of  glory  shall  come  in. 

Who  is  the  King  of  glory? 

The  Lord  strong  and  mighty, 

The  Lord  mighty  in  battle. 

Lift  up  your  heads,  O  ye  gates ; 

Yea,  lift  them  up,  ye  everlasting  doors : 


50  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

And  the  King  of  glory  shall  come  in. 

Who  is  this  King  of  glory? 

The  Lord  of  hosts. 

He  is  the  King  of  glory. 

— Psalm  xxiv. 

de  ceit'  ful  ly,  in  a  lying  manner.  sal  va'  tion,  deliverance  from  sin. 

ful'  ih'ss,  abundance.  van'  i  ty,  empty  pleasure;  idle  show. 

right'  eous  ness  (chiis),  purity  of  heart. 


THE    OCEAN. 

LOED   BYRON. 

{From  "Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage.") 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore, 

There  is  society,  where  none  intrudes, 
By  the  deep  Sea,  and  music  in  its  roar: 
I  love  not  Man  the  less,  but  Nature  more, 

From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before, 

To  mingle  with  the  Universe,  and  feel 

What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  can  not  all  conceal. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean — roll! 

Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain  ; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin  —  his  control 

Stops  with  the  shore ;  —  upon  the  watery  plain 

The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own, 

When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain, 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan, 
Without  a  grave,  unknelled,  uncoffined,  and  unknown. 


THE  OCEAN.  51 

The  armaments  which  thunder-strike  the  walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake 

And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals, 
The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 

Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war ; 

These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  flake 

They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which  mar 

Alike  the  Armada's  pride,  or  spoils  of  Trafalgar. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save  thee  — 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  what  are  they  ? 

Thy  waters  wasted  them  while  they  were  free, 
And  many  a  tyrant  since ;  their  shores  obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage ;  their  decay 

Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts :  —  not  so  thou, 
Unchangeable  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  play  — 

Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure  brow  — 

Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  rollest  now. 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty's  form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests  ;  in  all  time, 

Calm  or  convulsed  —  in  breeze,  or  gale,  or  storm, 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
"Dark-heaving ;  — boundless,  endless,  and  sublime — 

The  image  of  Eternity,  the  throne 

Of  the  Invisible ;  even  from  out  thy  slime 

The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made ;  each  zone 

Obeys  thee ;  thou  goest  forth,  dread,  fathomless, 
alone. 

And  I  have  loved  thee,  Ocean  !   and  my  joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 


52  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward :  from  a  boy 
I  wantoned  with  thy  breakers  —  they  to  me 
Were  a  delight ;  and  if  the  freshening  sea 

Made  them  a  terror  —  'twas  a  pleasing  fear, 
For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee, 

And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near, 

And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane  —  as  I  do  here. 

ar'  bi  ter,  one  who  directs  or  controls.  rav'  age,  ruin;  destruction. 

ar'  ma  ment,  a  force  equipped  for  war  Traf  al  gar',  the  scene  of  Nelson's  great 

(naval  or  military).  naval  victory. 

in'  ter  view,  a  meeting.  un  knelled'  (nSld),  without  the  tolling 
in  trude',  to  go  in  uninvited.  of  a  bell. 


DON  QUIXOTE  AND  SANCHO  PANZA. 

CERVANTES. 

{From  "Don  Quixote.") 
INTRODUCTION. 

At  the  very  beginning  of  the  work,  he  announces 
it  to  be  his  sole  purpose  to  break  down  the  vogue 
and  authority  of  books  of  chivalry,  and,  at  the  end 
of  the  whole,  he  declares  anew,  in  his  own  person, 
that  "he  had  had  no  other  desire  than  to  render 
abhorred  of  men  the  false  and  absurd  stories  con- 
tained in  books  of  chivalry";  exulting  in  his  suc- 
cess, as  an  achievement  of  no  small  moment.  And 
such,  in  fact,  it  was;  for  we  have  abundant  proof 
that  the  fanaticism  for  these  romances  was  so  great 
in  Spain,  during  the  sixteenth  century,  as  to  have 
become  matter  of  alarm  to  the  more  judicious. 

To  destroy  a  passion  that  had  struck  its  roots  so 
deeply  in  the  character  of  all  classes  of  men,  to 
break  up  the  only  reading  which  at  that  time  could 
be  considered  widely  popular  and  fashionable,  was 
certainly  a  bold  undertaking,  and  one  that  marks 


DON  QUIXOTE  AND  SANCHO  PANZA.  53 

anything  rather  than  a  scornful  or  broken  spirit,  or 
a  want  of  faith  in  what  is  most  to  be  valued  in  our 
common  nature.  The  great  wonder  is,  that  Cervantes 
succeeded.  But  that  he  did,  there  is  no  question. 
No  book  of  chivalry  was  written  after  the  appear- 
ance of  Don  Quixote,  in  1605 ;  and  from  the  same 
date,  even  those  already  enjoying  the  greatest  favor 
ceased,  with  one  or  two  unimportant  exceptions,  to 
be  reprinted  ;  so  that,  from  that  time  to  the  present, 
they  have  been  constantly  disappearing,  until  they 
are  now  among  the  rarest  of  literary  curiosities. 

—  George  Ticknor. 
DON  QUIXOTE  AND  SANCHO  PANZA. 

Don  Quixote,  hearing  how  soon  Sancho  was  to 
depart  to  his  new  government,  took  him  by  the  hand 
and  led  him  to  his  chamber,  in  order  to  give  him 
some  advice  respecting  his  conduct  in  office.  "  First, 
my  son,  fear  God ;  for  to  fear  Him  is  wisdom,  and 
being  wise,  thou  canst  not  err.  Secondly,  consider 
what  thou  art,  and  endeavor  to  know  thyself,  which 
is  the  most  difficult  study  of  all.  The  knowledge 
of  thyself  will  preserve  thee  from  vanity,  and  the 
fate  of  the  frog  that  foolishly  vied  with  the  ox  will 
serve  thee  as  a  caution ;  the  recollection,  too,  of 
having  been  formerly  a  swineherd,  in  thine  own 
country  will  be  to  thee,  in  the  loftiness  of  thy  pride, 
like  the  ugly  feet  of  the  peacock." 

"It  is  true,"  said  Sancho,  "that  I  once  kept 
swine,  but  I  was  only  a  boy  then ;  when  I  grew 
toward  manhood  I  looked  after  geese,  and  not  hogs. 
But  this,  methinks,  is  nothing  to  the  purpose;  for 
all  governors  are  not  descended  from  kings." 

"That    I    grant,"    replied    Don    Quixote;    "and 


54  THE  NEW  GENTUR  Y  READER. 

therefore  all  those  who  have  not  the  advantage  of 
noble  descent  should  fail  not  to  grace  the  dignity 
of  the  office  they  bear  with  gentleness  and  modesty, 
which,  when  accompanied  with  discretion,  will  silence 
those  murmurs  which  few  situations  in  life  can  escape. 

''Conceal  not  the  meanness  of  thy  family,  nor 
think  it  disgraceful  to  be  descended  from  peasants: 
for,  when  it  is  seen  that  thou  art  not  thyself  ashamed, 
none  will  endeavor  to  make  thee  so  ;  and  deem  it 
more  meritorious  to  be  a  virtuous,  humble  man  than 
a  lofty  sinner.  Infinite  is  the  number  of  those  who, 
born  of  low  extraction,  have  risen  to  the  highest  dig- 
nities, both  in  church  and  state ;  and  of  this  truth 
I  could  tire  thee  with  examples. 

"Remember,  Sancho,  if  thou  takest  virtue  for  the- 
rule  of  life,  and  values t  thyself  upon  acting  in  all 
things  conformable  thereto,  thou  wilt  have  no  cause 
to  envy  lords  and  princes  ;  for  blood  is  inherited,  but 
virtue  is  a  common  property  and  may  be  acquired  by 
all ;  it  has,  moreover,  an  intrinsic  worth  which  blood 
has  not.  This  being  so,  if  peradventure  any  one  of 
thy  kindred  visit  thee  in  thy  government,  do  not 
slight  nor  affront  him  ;  but  receive,  cherish,  and  make 
much  of  him,  for  in  so  doing  thou  wilt  please  God, 
who  allows  none  of  His  creatures  to  be  despised  ;  and 
thou  also  wilt  manifest  therein  a  well-disposed  nature. 

"Be  not  under  the  dominion  of  thine  own  will: 
it  is  the  vice  of  the  ignorant,  who  vainly  presume 
on  their  own  understanding.  Let  the  tears  of  the 
poor  find  more  compassion,  but  not  more  justice, 
from  thee  than  the  applications  of  the  wealthy.  Be 
equally  solicitous  to  sift  out  the  truth  amidst  iln* 
presents  and  the  promises  of  the  rich  and  the  sighs 


DON  QUIXOTE  AND  SANCHO  PANZA.  55 

and  entreaties  of  the  poor.  Whenever  equity  may 
justly  temper  the  rigor  of  the  law,  let  not  the  whole 
force  of  it  bear  upon  the  delinquent :  for  it  is  better 
that  a  judge  should  lean  on  the  side  of  compassion 
than  severity.  If,  perchance,  the  scales  of  justice  be 
not  correctly  balanced,  let  the  error  be  imputable  to 
pity,  not  to  gold.  If,  perchance,  the  cause  of  thine 
enemy  come  before  thee,  forget  thy  injuries,  and 
think  only  on  the  merits  of  the  case.  Let  not  pri- 
vate affection  blind  thee  in  another  man's  cause; 
for  the  errors  thou  shalt  thereby  commit  are  often 
without  remedy,  and  at  the  expense  of  both  thy 
reputation  and  fortune. 

"When  a  beautiful  woman  comes  before  thee  to 
demand  justice,  consider  maturely  the  nature  of  her 
claim,  without  regarding  either  her  tears  or  her  sighs, 
unless  thou  wouldst  expose  thy  judgment  to  the 
danger  of  being  lost  in  the  one,  and  thy  integrity 
in  the  other.  Revile  not  with  words  him  whom 
thou  hast  to  correct  with  deeds:  the  punishment 
which  the  unhappy  wretch  is  doomed  to  suffer  is 
sufficient,  without  the  addition  of  abusive  language. 
When  the  criminal  stands  before  thee,  recollect  the 
frail  and  depraved  nature  of  man,  and,  as  much  as 
thou  canst,  without  injustice  to  the  suffering  party, 
show  pity  and  clemency ;  for,  though  the  attributes 
of  God  are  all  equally  adorable,  yet  his  mercy  is  more 
shining  and  attractive  in  our  eyes  than  his  justice. 

"If,  Sancho,  thou  observest  these  precepts,  thy 
days  will  be  long  and  thy  fame  eternal;  thy  rec- 
ompense full,  and  thy  felicity  unspeakable.  Thy 
children  and  thy  grandchildren  shall  want  neither 
honors  nor  titles.    Beloved  by  all  men,  thy  days  shall 


56  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

pass  in  peace  and  tranquillity;  and  when  the  inevit- 
able period  comes,  death  shall  steal  on  thee  in  a 
good  and  venerable  old  age,  and  thy  grandchildren's 
children,  with  their  tender  and  pious  hands,  shall 
close  thine  eyes." 


THE   OLD  MAN  DREAMS. 

OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES. 

Oh  for  one  hour  of  youthful  joy! 

Give  back  my  twentieth  spring  ! 
I'd  rather  laugh,  a  bright-haired  boy, 

Than  reign,  a  gray-beard  king. 

Off  with  the  spoils  of  wrinkled  age ! 

Away  with  Learning's  crown! 
Tear  out  life's  Wisdom-written  page, 

And  dash  its  trophies  down ! 

One  moment  let  my  life-blood  stream 
From  boyhood's  fount  of  flame ! 

Give  me  one  giddy,  reeling  dream 
Of  life  all  love  and  fame ! 


My  listening  angel  heard  the  prayer, 
And,  calmly  smiling,  said, 
"If  I  but  touch  thy  silvered  hair 
Thy  hasty  wish  hath  sped. 

"But  is  there  nothing  in  thy  track, 
To  bid  thee  fondly  stay, 
While  the  swift  seasons  hurry  back 
To  find  the  wished-for  day?" 


THE  OLD  MAN  DREAMS.  57 

"Ah,  truest  soul  of  womankind! 
Without  thee  what  were  life? 
One  bliss  I  cannot  leave  behind: 
I'll  take  —  my  —  precious  —  wife  ! ' ' 

The  angel  took  a  sapphire  pen 

And  wrote  in  rainbow  dew, 
The  man  would  be  a  boy  again, 

And  be  a  husband  too! 

"And  is  there  nothing  yet  unsaid, 
Before  the  change  appears? 
Remember,  all  their  gifts  have  fled 
With  those  dissolving  years." 

"Why,  yes;"  for  memory  would  recall 

My  fond  paternal  joys  ; 
"I  could  not  bear  to  leave  them  all  — 

F 11  take  —  my  —  girl  —  and  —  boys. ' ' 

The  smiling  angel  dropped  his  pen, — 

"Why,  this  will  never  do ; 
The  man  would  be  a  boy  again, 
And  be  a  father  too  ! " 


And  so  I  laughed, — my  laughter  woke 
The  household  with  its  noise, — 

And  wrote  my  dream,  when  morning  broke, 
To  please  the  gray-haired  boys. 

pa  ter'  nal,  of  or  pertaining  to  a  father.       tro'  phy,  anything  taken  and  preserved 
reign  (ran\  rule.  as  a  memorial  of  victory. 

sap'  phire  (saf  Ir),  a  precious  stone  of 
a  beautiful  blue  color. 


58  THE  NEW  GENTUR Y  READER 

THE  CHAMBERED   NAUTILUS. 

OLIVER  WENDELL   HOLMES. 

This  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign, 

Sails  the  unshadowed  main, — 

The  venturous  barque  that  flings 
On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  Siren  sings, 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 
Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their  streaming 
hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl ; 

Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl ! 

And  every  chambered  cell, 
Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to  dwell, 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell, 

Before  thee  lies  revealed, — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  unsealed ! 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 

That  spread  his  lustrous  coil ; 

Still,  as  the  spiral  grew, 
He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new, 
Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway  through, 

Built  up  its  idle  door, 
Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  the  old 
no  more. 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  by  thee, 

Child  of  the  wandering  sea, 

Cast  from  her  lap,  forlorn ! 
From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  born 


J  A  CKSON  AT  NEW  0  RLEANS.  59 

Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn ! 

While  on  mine  ear  it  rings, 
Through  the  deep  caves  of   thought  I  hear  a  voice 
that  sings : — 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul, 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll ! 

Leave  thy  low-vaulted  past ! 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast, 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 
Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  unresting  sea ! 

crypt,  an  underground  cell;  a  cave.  Si'  ren,  a  mermaid;  a  sea-woman. 

feign,  to  pretend.  Tri'  ton,  a  fabled  sea  demigod. 

i'  rised  (rist),  resembling  the  rainbow.  ven'  tur  ous,  daring;  venturesome, 

main,  the  ocean.  wont  (wunt),  accustomed. 


JACKSON  AT  NEW  ORLEANS.       . 

CHARLES   GAYARRE. 

(.From  the  "History  of  Louisiana.") 

His  very  physiognomy  prognosticated  what  soul 
was  encased  within  the  spare  but  well-ribbed  form 
which  had  that  "lean  and  hungry  look"  described 
by  England's  greatest  bard  as  bespeaking  little  sleej) 
of  nights,  but  much  of  ambition,  self-reliance,  and 
impatience  of  control.  His  lip  and  eye  denoted 
the  man  of  unyielding  temper,  and  his  very  hair, 
slightly  silvered,  stood  erect  like  quills  round  his 
wrinkled  brow,  as  if  they  scorned  to  bend. 

Some  sneered,  it  is  true,  at  what  they  called  a 
military  tyro,  at  the  impromptu   general  who  had 


GENERAL  ANDREW  JACKSON. 


JACKSON  AT  NEW  ORLEANS.  61 

sprung  out  of  the  uncouth  lawyer  and  the  unlearned 
judge,  who  in  arms  had  only  the  experience  of  a 
few  months,  acquired  in  a  desultory  war  against 
wild  Indians,  and  who  was,  not  only  without  any 
previous  training  to  his  new  profession,  but  also 
without  the  first  rudiments  of  a  liberal  education, 
for  he  did  not  even  know  the  orthography  of  his 
own  native  language. 

Such  was  the  man  who,  with  a  handful  of  raw 
militia,  was  to  stand  in  the  way  of  the  veteran 
troops  of  England,  whose  boast  it  was  to  have  tri- 
umphed over  one  of  the  greatest  captains  known  in 
history. 

But  those  who  entertained  such  distrust  had 
hardly  come  in  contact  with  General  Jackson,  when 
they  felt  that  they  had  to  deal  with  a  master  spirit. 
True,  he  was  rough  hewn  from  the  rock,  but  rock 
he  was,  and  of  that  kind  of  rock  which  Providence 
chooses  to  select  as  a  fit  material  to  use  in  its 
structures  of  human  greatness. 

True,  he  had  not  the  education  of  a  lieutenant  in 
a  European  army  ;  but  what  lieutenant,  educated  or 
not,  who  had  the  will  and  the  remarkable  military 
adaptation  so  evident  in  General  Jackson's  intel- 
lectual and  physical  organization,  ever  remained  a 
subaltern  ?  Much  less  could  General  Jackson  fail  to 
rise  to  his  proper  place  in  a  country  where  there 
was  so  much  more  elbow-room,  and  fewer  artificial 
obstacles  than  in  less  favored  lands. 

But,  whatever  those  obstacles  might  have  been, 
General  Jackson  would  have  overcome  them  all.  His 
will  was  of  such  an  extraordinary  nature  that,  like 
Christian  faith,  it  could  almost  have  accomplished 


62  THE  NR  W  CENTUR  T  RE  A  DER. 

prodigies  and  removed  mountains.  It  is  impossible 
to  study  the  life  of  General  Jackson  without  being 
convinced  that  this  is  the  most  remarkable  feature 
of  his  character. 

So  intense  and  incessantly  active  this  peculiar 
faculty  was  in  him,  that  one  would  suppose  that 
his  mind  was  nothing  but  will  —  a  will  so  lofty  that 
it  towered  into  sublimity.  In  him  it  supplied  the 
place  of  genius  —  or,  rather,  it  was  almost  genius. 

On  many  occasions,  in  the  course  of  his  long, 
eventful  life,  when  his  shattered  constitution  made 
his  physicians  despair  of  preserving  him,  he  seemed 
to  continue  to  live  merely  because  it  was  his  will ; 
and  when  his  unconquerable  spirit  departed  from 
his  enfeebled  and  worn-out  body,  those  who  knew 
him  well  might  almost  have  been  tempted  to  sup- 
pose that  he  had  not  been  vanquished  by  death, 
but  had  at  last  consented  to  repose. 

This  man,  when  he  took  the  command  at  New 
Orleans,  had  made  up  his  mind  to  beat  the  English, 
and,  as  that  mind  was  so  constituted  that  it  was  not 
susceptible  of  entertaining  much  doubt  as  to  the 
results  of  any  of  its  resolves,  he  went  to  work  with 
an  innate  confidence  which  transfused  itself  into  the 
population  he  had  been  sent  to  protect. 

General  Jackson  found  that  the  country  he  had 
come  to  defend  was  in  the  most  defenseless  condi- 
tion. It  had  a  considerable  extent  of  coast,  connect- 
ing with  the  interior  through  many  water  communi- 
cations ;  and  having  hardly  any  fortified  points,  it 
was  open  on  all  sides. 

Fortunately  the  man  who  was  sent  for  the  de- 
fense of  Southern  Territory  was  Southern  born.     He 


GRANT.  63 

was  a  native  of  South  Carolina,  and  he  had  grown 
to  hardy  manhood  on  the  forest-clad  hills  of  Ten- 
nessee. 

It  is  still  more  fortunate  that  he  was  equal  to  the 
occasion.  He  did  not  deplore,  in  helpless  despair, 
the  scarcity  of  his  resources ;  he  did  not  write  to 
his  Government  that  he  could  not  defend  New 
Orleans  with  his  limited  means ;  he  never  thought 
of  retreating,  or  abandoning  one  inch  of  territory ; 
he  saw  that  he  had  to  create  everything  for  defense, 
and  everything  he  did  create. 

des'  ul  to  ry,  irregular.  prog  nos'  ti  ca'  ted,  betokened;  fore- 
im  promp'  tu,  made  offhand.  told. 

or  thog'  ra  phy,  spelling.  sub'  al  tern,  an  officer  in  the  army  below 
pliys  i  og'  no  my,  cast  or  expression  of  the  rank  of  captain. 

the  face.  sub  lim'  i  ty,  grandeur. 

prod'  i  gy,  a  wonder;  a  miracle.  ty'  ro,  a  beginner  in  learning  anything. 


GRANT. 

HENRY   WATTERSON. 

{Extract  from  a  Speech  before  the  Society  of  the  Army  of  the  Tennessee.) 

I  know  full  well  that  this  is  neither  a  time  nor 
place  for  abstract  economics,  and  I  am  not  going  to 
afflict  you  with  a  dissertation  upon  free  trade  or 
free  silver.  I  came,  primarily,  to  bow  my  head 
and  to  pay  my  measure  of  homage  to  the  statue 
that  was  unveiled  to-day.  The  career  and  the  name 
which  that  statue  commemorates  belong  to  me  no 
less  than  to  you.  When  I  followed  him  to  the 
grave — proud  to  appear  in  his  obsequies,  though 
as  the  obscurest  of  those  who  bore  any  official 
part  therein  —  I  felt  that  I  was  helping  to  bury  not 
only  a  great  man  but  a  true  friend.     From  that  day 


GENERAL  U.  S.  GRANT. 


GRANT.  65 

to  this  the  story  of  the  life  and  death  of  General 
Grant  has  more  and  more  impressed  and  touched  me. 
.  I  never  allowed  myself  to  make  his  acquaintance 
until  he  had  quitted  the  White  House.  The  period 
of  his  political  activity  was  full  of  uncouth  and 
unsparing  partisan  contention.  It  was  a  kind  of 
civil  war.  I  had  my  duty  to  do,  and  I  did  not 
dare  trust  myself  to  the  subduing  influence  of  what 
I  was  sure  must  follow  friendly  relations  between 
such  a  man  as  he  was  and  such  a  man  as  I  knew 
myself  to  be.  In  this  I  was  not  mistaken,  as  the 
sequel  proved.  I  met  him  for  the  first  time  beneath 
my  own  vine  and  fig  tree,  and  a  happy  series  of 
accidents  thereafter  gave  me  the  opportunity  to 
meet  him  often  and  to  know  him  well.  He  was 
the  embodiment  of  simplicity,  integrity,  and  cour- 
age ;  every  inch  a  general,  a  soldier,  and  a  man ;  but 
in  the  circumstances  of  his  last  illness,  a  figure 
of  heroic  proportions  for  the  contemplation  of  the 
ages.  I  recall  nothing  in  history  so  sublime  as 
the  spectacle  of  that  brave  spirit,  broken  in  for- 
tune and  in  health,  with  the  dread  hand  of  the 
dark  angel  clutched  about  his  throat,  struggling 
with  every  breath  to  hold  the  clumsy,  unfamiliar 
weapon  with  which  he  sought  to  wrest  from  the 
jaws  of  death  something  for  the  support  of  wife 
and  children  when  he  was  gone !  If  he  had  done 
nothing  else,  that  would  have  made  his  exit  from 
the  world  an  epic  ! 

Gentlemen,  soldiers,  comrades,  the  silken  folds 
that  twine  about  us  here,  for  all  their  soft  and 
careless  grace,  are  yet  as  strong  as  hooks  of  steel ! 
They  hold  together   a  united   people  and  a   great 


66  THE  NE  W  CENTUR  Y  READER. 

nation;  for,  realizing  the  truth  at  last  —  with  no 
wounds  to  be  healed  and  no  stings  of  defeat  to 
remember  —  the  South  says  to  the  North,  as  simply 
and  as  truly  as  was  said  three  thousand  years  ago 
in  that  far-away  meadow  upon  the  margin  of  the 
mystic  sea:  "  Whither  thou  goest,  I  will  go:  and 
where  thou  lodgest,  I  will  lodge :  thy  people  shall 
be  my  people,  and  thy  God  my  God." 

com  inem'  o  rate,  to  perpetuate  or  cele-  ep'  ic,  heroic  event. 

brate  the  memory  of.  in  teg'  ri  ty,  uprightness;  honesty. 

dis'  ser  ta'  tion,  discussion.  ob'  se  quies,  the  ceremonies  pertaining 
em  bod'  i  nient,  bodily  representation.  to  burial. 


THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY-  NIGHT. 

ROBERT    BURNS. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry  sugh;1 
The  short' ning  winter- day  is  near  a  close  ; 

The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh : 

The  black'  ning  trains  o'  craws  to  their  repose : 
The  toil-worn  Cotter  frae  his  labor  goes, 

This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end, 

Collects  his  spades,    his  mattocks,   and  his  hoes, 

Hoping  the  morn2  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend, 

And  weary,   o'er  the  moor,   his  course  does   hame- 
ward  bend. 

At  length  hfs  lonely  cot  appears  in  view, 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree ; 

Th'  expectant  wee  things,  toddlin',  stacher3  through 
To  meet  their  dad,  wi'  nichteriIl,  4  noise  an'  glee. 
His  wee  bit  ingle,5  blinkin'  bonnily, 

i  Moan.  2  Morrow.  3  Stagger.  *  Fluttering.  «  Fire-place. 


THE  COTTERS  SATURDAY  NIGHT.  61 

His  clean  hearth- stane,  his  thrifty  wine's  smile, 

The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee, 
Does  a'  his  weary  kiaugh1  and  care  begnile, 
An'  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labor  an'  his  toil. 

Belyve,2  the  elder  bairns  come  drapping  in, 
At  service  ont,  amang  the  farmers  roun'  ; 

Some  ca'3  the  plengh,  some  herd,  some  tentie4  rin 
A  cannie5  errand  to  a  neebor  town  : 
Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman  grown, 

In  youthfu'  bloom,  love  sparkling  in  her  e'e, 

Comes  hame,  perhaps,  to  shew  a  braw6  new  gown, 

Or  deposite7  her  sair-won8  penny-fee,9 

To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hardship  be. 

Wi'  joy  unfeign'd,  brothers  and  sisters  meet, 

And  each  for  other's  wreelfare  kindly  spiers:10 
The  social  hours,  swift- wing' d,  unnoticed  fleet; 

Each  tells  the  uncos11  that  he  sees  or  hears ; 

The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopeful  years  ; 
Anticipation  forward  points  the  view. 

The  mother,  wi'  her  needle  an'  her  shears, 
Gars12  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel's  the  new; 
The  father  mixes  a'  wi'  admonition  due. 

Their  master's  an'  their  mistress's  command, 
The  younkers  a'  are  warned  to  obey ; 

An'  mind  their  labors  wi'  an  eydent13  hand, 

An'  ne'er,  tho'  out  o'  sight,  to  jauk14  or  play: 
uAn'  O!  be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway! 


1  Anxiety.  2  Presently.  3  Drive,  i.  e.,  with  shouting  or  calling.  *  Attentive. 
5  Requiring  judgment.  6  Brave,  fine,  handsome.  7  De'posite,/or  depos'it.  8  Dear- 
won,  hard-earned.  9  Money-wages.  10  Enquires,  n  Unusual  things,  news.  12  Makes. 
1?  Diligent,    i*  Trifle. 


6S  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

An'  mind  yonr  duty,  duly,  morn  and  night ! 

Lest  in  temptations  path  ye  gang  astray, 
Implore  his  counsel  and  assisting  might: 
They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the  Lord 
aright !" 
*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

The  cheerfu'  supper  done,  wf  serious  face, 

They,  round  the  ingle,  form  a  circle  wide  ; 
The  sire  turns  o'er,  wf  patriarchal  grace, 

The  big  ha' -Bible, *  ance  his  father's  pride: 

His  bonnet  rev'rently  is  laid  aside, 
His  lyart2  haffets3  wearing  thin  an'  bare ; 

Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide, 
He  wales4  a  portion  with  judicious  care ; 
And  "Let  us  worship  God!"  he  says,  with  solemn 
air. 

They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise ; 

They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest  aim : 
Perhaps  •" Dundee's"  wild  warbling  measures  rise, 

Or  plaintive  "Martyrs,"  worthy  of  the  name; 

Or  noble  "Elgin"  beets5  the  heavenward  flame, 
The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays: 

Compared  with  these,  Italian  trills  are  tame ; 
The  tickl'd  ears  no  heartfelt  raptures  raise ; 
Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator's  praise. 

The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page, 
How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on  high ; 

Or  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 
With  Amalek'  s  ungracious  progeny  ; 
Or  how  the  royal  bard  did  groaning  lie 

i  Hall  Bible.   3  Gray,  grayish.    3  Temples,  here  temple  locks.   *  Chooses.   5  Feeds, 
nourishes. 


THE  COTTERS  SATURDAY  NIGHT.  69 

Beneath  the  stroke  of  Heaven's  avenging  ire  ; 
Or  Job's  pathetic  plaint,  and  wailing  cry ; 
Or  rapt  Isaiah's  wild,  seraphic  fire; 
Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 

Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme, 

How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was  shed ; 

How  He,  who  bore  in  Heaven  the  second  name, 
Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  His  head: 
How  His  first  followers  and  servants  sped: 

The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a  land; 
How  he,  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished, 

Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand ; 

And    heard    great    Bab' Ion's    doom   pronounc'd    by 
Heaven's  command. 

Then  kneeling  down,  to  Heaven's  Eternal  King, 

The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband  prays: 
Hope  " springs  exulting  on  triumphant  wing," 

That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days : 

There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays, 
No  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  the  bitter  tear, 

Together  hymning  their  Creator's  praise, 
In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear; 
While  circling  time  moves  round  in  an  eternal  sphere. 

Compar'd  with  this,  how  poor  Religion's  pride, 

In  all  the  pomp  of  method,  and  of  art, 
When  men  display  to  congregations  wide, 

Devotion's  ev'ry  grace,  except  the  heart! 

The  Pow'r,  incens'd,  the  pageant  will  desert, 
The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole ; 

But  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart, 


70  THE  NE  W  CENTUR  T  READER 

May  hear,  well  pleas' d,  the  language  of  the  soul ; 
And  in  His  book  of  life  the  inmates  poor  enroll. 

Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  sev'ral  way; 

The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest: 
The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay, 

And  proffer  up  to  Heaven  the  warm  request 

That  He  who  stills  the  raven's  clam'rous  nest, 
And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flow'ry  pride, 

Would,  in  the  way  His  wisdom  sees  the  best, 
For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide; 
But  chiefly,  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divine  preside. 

From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia's  grandeur  springs, 
That  makes  her  lov'd  at  home,  rever'd  abroad; 

Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of  kings, 
"An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of  God;" 
And  certes,  in  fair  virtue's  heav'nly  road, 

The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind; 

What  is  a  lordling's  pomp?  a  cumbrous  load, 

Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind, 

Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  relin'd! 

O  Scotia!   my  dear,  my  native  soil! 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven  is  sent! 
Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 

Be  blest  with  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet  content ! 

And  O !  may  Heaven  their  simple  lives  prevent 
From  luxury's  contagion,  weak  and  vile! 

Then,  howe'er  crowns  and  coronets  be  rent, 
A  virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while, 
And  stand  a  wall  of  lire  around  their  much-lov'd  Isle. 


AN  OLD-TIME  DISTRICT  SCHOOL.  71 

O  Thou!  who  pour'd  the  patriotic  tide 

That  stream' d  through  Wallace's  undaunted  heart ; 

Who  dar'd  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride, 
Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part, 
(The  patriot's  God,  peculiarly  Thou  art, 

His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and  reward!) 
O  never,  never,  Scotia's  realm  desert; 

But  still  the  patriot,  and  the  patriot  bard, 

In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and  guard. 


AN  OLD-TIME  DISTRICT  SCHOOL. 

JAMES   PARTOX. 

{From  "  The  Life  of  Horace  Greeley.") 

A  district  school  —  and  what  was  a  district  school 
forty  years  ago?  It  concerns  us  to  know  what 
manner  of  place  it  was,  and  what  was  its  routine  of 
exercises. 

The  school-house  stood  in  an  open  place,  formed 
by  the  crossing  of  roads.  It  was  very  small,  and  of 
one  story ;  contained  one  apartment,  had  two  win- 
dows on  each  side,  a  small  door  in  the  gable  end 
that  faced  the  road,  and  a  low  door-step  before  it. 
It  was  the  thing  called  house,  in  its  simplest  form. 
But  for  its  roof,  windows,  and  door,  it  had  been  a 
box,  large,  rough,  and  unpainted.  Within  and  with- 
out, it  was  destitute  of  anything  ornamental.  It 
was  not  enclosed  by  a  fence ;  it  was  not  shaded  by 
a  tree. 

The  sun  in  summer,  the  winds  in  winter,  had 
their  will  of  it :  there  was  nothing  to  avert  the  fury 


72  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

of  either.  The  school-houses  of  the  previous  genera- 
tion were  picturesque  and  comfortable ;  those  of  the 
present  time  are  as  prim,  neat,  and  orderly  as  the 
cottage  of  an  old  maid  who  enjoys  an  annuity ;  but 
the  school-house  of  forty  years  ago  had  an  aspect 
singularly  forlorn  and  uninviting.  It  was  built  for 
an  average  of  thirty  pupils,  but  it  frequently  con- 
tained fifty ;  and  then  the  little  school-room  was  a 
compact  mass  of  young  humanity :  the  teacher  had 
to  dispense  with  his  table,  and  was  lucky  if  he 
could  find  room  for  his  chair. 

The  side  of  the  apartment  opposite  the  door  was 
occupied,  chiefly,  by  a  vast  fireplace,  four  or  iive  feet 
wide,  where  a  carman's  load  of  wood  could  burn  in 
one  prodigious  fire.  Along  the  sides  of  the  room 
was  a  low,  slanting  shelf,  which  served  for  a  desk 
to  those  who  wrote,  and  against  the  sharp  edge  of 
which  the  elder  pupils  leaned  when  they  were  not 
writing. 

The  seats  were  made  of  "slabs,"  inverted,  sup- 
ported on  sticks,  and  without  backs.  The  elder 
pupils  sat  along  the  sides  of  the  room, — the  girls 
on  one  side,  the  boys  on  the  other;  the  youngest 
sat  nearest  the  fire,  where  they  were  as  much  too 
warm  as  those  who  sat  near  the  door  were  too  cold. 
In  a  school  of  forty  pupils,  there  would  be  a  dozen 
who  were  grown  up,  marriageable  young  men  and 
women.  Not  infrequently  married  men,  and  occa- 
sionally married  women,  attended  school  in  the 
winter. 

Among  the  younger  pupils,  there  were  usually 
a  dozen  who  could  not  read,  and  half  as  many 
who  did  not  know  the  alphabet.     The  teacher  was. 


ROBERT  BURNS.  73 

perhaps,  one  of  the  farmer's  sons  of  the  district, 
who  knew  a  little  more  than  his  elder  pupils,  and 
only  a  little ;  or  he  was  a  student  who  was  working 
his  way  through  college.  His  wages  were  those  of  a 
farm-laborer,  ten  or  twelve  dollars  a  month  and  his 
board.  He  boarded  "round"  i.  e.,  he  lived  a  few 
days  at  each  of  the  houses  of  the  district,  stopping 
longest  at  the  most  agreeable  place. 

The  grand  qualification  of  a  teacher  was  the  abil- 
ity "to  do"  any  sum  in  the  arithmetic.  To  know 
arithmetic  was  to  be  a  learned  man.  Generally,  the 
teacher  was  very  young,  sometimes  not  more  than 
sixteen  years  old. 

a  part'  ment,  a  room.  hu  man'  i  ty,  humankind. 

a  vert',  to  turn  aside;  to  ward  off.  or  na  men'  tal,  serving  to  ornament  or 

com  pact',  dense;  close  together.  decorate. 

ties'  ti  tute,  without;  devoid.  qual'  i  fi  ca'  tion,  that  which  fits  for  a 

dis  pense',  to  give  up.  .duty  or  work. 

ga'  ble,  the  triangular  end  of  a  house.  slab,  plank  with  the  hark  on  one  side. 


ROBERT  BURNS. 

FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK. 

*  *  #  *       •         *  * 

I've  stood  beside  the  cottage-bed 

Where  the  Bard-peasant  first  drew  breath ; 
A  straw-thatched  roof  above  his  head, 

A  straw- wrought  couch  beneath. 


\-j 


And  I  have  stood  beside  the  pile, 

His  monument — that  tells  to  Heaven 

The  homage  of  earth's  proudest  isle 
To  that  Bard -peasant  given ! 


74  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

Bid  thy  thoughts  hover  o'er  that  spot, 
Boy-minstrel,  in  thy  dreaming  hour ; 

And  know,  however  low  his  lot, 
A  Poet's  pride  and  power: 

The  pride  that  lifted  Burns  from  earth, 
The  power  that  gave  a  child  of  song 

Ascendency  o'er  rank  and  birth, 
The  rich,  the  brave,  the  strong ; 

And  if  despondency  weigh  down 

Thy  spirit's  fluttering  pinions  then, 

Despair — thy  name  is  written  on 
The  roll  of  common  men. 

There  have  been  loftier  themes  than  his, 
And  longer  scrolls,  and  louder  lyres, 

And  lays  lit  up  with  Poesy's 
Purer  and  holier  fires : 

Yet  read  the  names  that  know  not  death ; 

Few  nobler  ones  than  Burns  are  there ; 
And  few  have  won  a  greener  wreath 

Than  that  which  binds  his  hair. 

His  is  that  language  of  the  heart, 

In  which  the  answering  heart  would  speak, 

Thought,  word,  that  bids  the  warm  tear  start, 
Or  the  smile  light  the  cheek ; 

And  his  that  music,  to  whose  tone 

The  common  pulse  of  man  keeps  time, 

In  cot  or  castle's  mirth  or  moan, 
In  cold  or  sunny  clime. 


ROBERT  BURNS.  75 

And  who  hath  heard  his  song,  nor  knelt 
Before  its  spell  with  willing  knee, 

And  listened,  and  believed,  and  felt 
The  poet's  mastery 

O'er  the  mind's  sea,  in  calm  and  storm, 
O'er  the  heart's  .sunshine  and  its  showers, 

O'er  Passion's  moments,  bright  and  warm, 
O'er  reason's  dark,  cold  hours ; 


55 


On  fields  where  brave  men  udie  or  do, 
In  halls  where  rings  the  banquet's  mirth, 

Where  mourners  weep,  where  lovers  woo, 
Frpm  throne  to  cottage  hearth? 

What  sweet  tears  dim  the  eye  unshed, 
What  wild  vows  falter  on  the  tongue, 

When  "Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled," 
Or  "Auld  Lang  Syne"  is  sung! 

Pure  hopes,  that  lift  the  soul  above, 

Come  with  his  Cotter's  hymn  of  praise, 

And  dreams  of  youth,  and  truth,  and  love, 
With  "Logan's"  banks  and  braes. 

And  when  he  breathes  his  master-lay 
Of  Alio  way's  witch-haunted  wall, 

All  passions  in  our  frames  of  clay 
Come  thronging  at  his  call. 

Imagination's  world  of  air, 

And  our  own  world,  its  gloom  and  glee, 
Wit,  pathos,  poetry,  are  there, 

And  death's  sublimity. 


76  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

And  Burns  —  though  brief  the  race  he  ran, 
Though  rough  and  dark  the  path  he  trod, 

Lived  —  died  —  in  form  and  soul  a  Man, 
The  image  of  his  God. 


Praise  to  the  bard !   His  words  are  driven, 
Like  flower  seeds  by  the  far  winds  sown, 

Where'er,  beneath  the  sky  of  heaven, 
The  birds  of  fame  have  flown. 

ascend'ency,  controlling  influence.  horn'  age,  reverence. 

Bard'-peas'  ant,  rustic  poet.  pin'  ion  (yun),  wing. 

de  spond'  en  cy,  hopelessness;  despair.  wrought  (r^t),  worked. 


DEDICATION  SPEECH  AT  GETTYSBURG. 

ABRAHAM   LINCOLN. 

Fourscore  and  seven  years  ago  our  fathers 
brought  forth  on  this  continent,  a  new  nation,  con- 
ceived in  liberty,  and  dedicated  to  the  proposi- 
tion that  all  men  are  created  equal. 

Now  we  are  engaged  in  a  great  civil  war,  testing 
whether  that  nation,  or  any  nation  so  conceived  and 
so  dedicated,  can  long  endure.  We  are  met  on  a 
great  battle-field  of  that  war.  We  have  come  to 
dedicate  a  portion  of  that  field,  as  a  final  resting 
place  for  those  who  here  gave  their  lives  that  that 
nation  might  live.  It  is  altogether  fitting  and  proper 
that  we  should  do  this. 

But,  in  a  larger  sense,  we  can  not  dedicate  —  we 
can  not  consecrate  —  we  can  not  hallow — this  ground. 


BAYMm  OF  LINCOLN.  77 

The  brave  men,  living  and  dead,  who  struggled  here 
have  consecrated  it,  far  above  our  poor  power  to 
add  or  detract.  The  world  will  little  note,  nor  long 
remember  what  we  say  here,  but  it  can  never  forget 
what  they  did  here.  It  is  for  us  the  living,  rather, 
to  be  dedicated  here  to  the  unfinished  work  which 
they  who  fought  here  have  thus  far  so  nobly 
advanced.  It  is  rather  for  us  to  be  here  dedicated 
to  the  great  task  remaining  before  us —  that  from 
these  honored  dead  we  take  increased  devotion  to 
that  cause  for  which  they  gave  the  last  full  measure 
of  devotion  —  that  we  here  highly  resolve  that  these 
dead  shall  not  have  died  in  vain  —  that  this  nation, 
under  God,  shall  have  a  new  birth  of  freedom — and 
that  government  of  the  people,  by  the  people,  for 
the  people,  shall  not  perish  from  the  earth. 

con  ceived',  originated.  mal'  ice,  ill  will. 

con'  se  era'  ted,  made  sacred.  mys'  tic,  secret;  mysterious. 

ded'  i  cate,  to  set  apart;  to  devote  to  some  prop'  o  si'  tion,  a  truth  set  forth  in  for- 

use  or  end.  mal  statement. 

de  vo'tion,  consecration. 


SAYINGS   OF    LINCOLN. 

"I  have  never  had  a  feeling,  politically,  that  did 
not  spring  from  the  sentiments  embodied  in  the 
Declaration  of  Independence." 

"Let  us  have  faith  that  right  makes  might;  and 
in  that  faith  let  us  dare  to  do  our  duty  as  we 
understand  it." 

"With  malice  toward  none,  with  charity  for  all, 
with  firmness  in  the  right,  as  God  gives  us  to  see 
the  right,  let  us  strive  on." 


78  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

"The  mystic  chords  of  memory,  stretching  from 
every  battlefield,  and  patriot  grave,  to  every  living 
heart  and  to  every  hearthstone,  all  over  this  broad 
land,  will  yet  swell  the  chorus  of  the  Union,  when 
again  touched,  as  surely  they  will  be,  by  the  better 
angels  of  our  nature." 


THE  EMPLOYMENT  OF  TIME. 

CHARLES   SUMNER. 

{From  a  Lecture  before  the  Bosto?i  Lyceum,  February  18, 1846.) 

The  value  of  time  has  passed  into  a  proverb, — 
"Time  is  money."  It  is  so  because  its  employment 
brings  money.  But  it  is  more.  It  is  knowledge. 
Still  more,  it  is  virtue.  Nor  is  it  creditable  to 
the  character  of  the  world  that  the  proverb  has 
taken  this  material  and  mercenary  complexion,  as 
if  money  were  the  highest  good  and  the  strongest 
recommendation. 

Time  is  more  than  money.  It  brings  what  money 
can  not  purchase.  It  has  in  its  lap  all  the  learning 
of  the  Past,  the  spoils  of  Antiquity,  the  priceless 
treasures  of  knowledge.  Who  would  barter  these 
for  gold  or  silver  ?  But  knowledge  is  a  means  only, 
and  not  an  end.  It  is  valuable  because  it  promotes 
the  welfare,  the  development,  and  the  progress  of 
man.  And  the  highest  value  of  time  is  not  even  in 
knowledge,  but  in  the  opportunity  of  doing  good. 

Time  is  opportunity.  Little  or  much,  it  may  be 
the  occasion  of  usefulness.  It  is  the  point  desired 
by  the  philosopher  where  to  plant  the  lever  that 


THE  EMPLOYMENT  OF  TIME.  79 

shall  move  the  world.  It  is  the  napkin  in  which 
are  wrapped,  not  only  the  talent  of  silver,  bnt  the 
treasures  of  knowledge  and  the  fruits  of  virtue. 
Saving  time,  we  save  all  these. 

Employing  time'  to  the  best  advantage,  we  exer- 
cise a  true  thrift.  To -each  of  us  the  passing  day  is 
of  the  same  dimensions,  nor  can  any  one  by  taking 
thought  add  a  moment  to  its  hours.  But  though 
unable  to  extend  their  duration,  he  may  swell  them 
with  works. 

It  is  customary  to  say,  "Take  care  of  the  small 
sums,  and  the  large  will  take  care  of  themselves." 
With  equal  wisdom  and  more  necessity  may  it  be 
said,  "Watch  the  minutes,  and  the  hours  and  days 
will  be  safe."  The  moments  are  precious;  they  are 
gold  filings,  to  be  carefully  preserved  and  melted 
into  the  rich  ingot. 

Time  is  the  measure  of  life  on  earth.  Its  enjoy- 
ment is  life  itself.  Its  divisions,  its  days,  its 
hours,  its  minutes  are  fractions  of  this  heavenly  gift. 
Every  moment  that  flies  over  our  heads  takes  from 
the  future  and  gives  to  the  irrevocable  past,  short- 
ening by  so  much  the  measure  of  our  days,  abridg- 
ing by  so  much  the  means  of  usefulness  committed 
to  our  hands. 

The  moments  lost  in  listlessness  or  squandered 
in  unprofitable  dissipation,  gathered  into  aggregates, 
are  hours,  days,  weeks,  months,  years.  The  daily 
sacrifice  of  a  single  hour  during  a  year  comes,  at 
its  end,  to  thirty-six  working  days,  an  amount  of 
time,  if  devoted  exclusively  to  one  object,  ample 
for  the  acquisition  of  important  knowledge,  and  for 
the  accomplishment  of  inconceivable  good. 


80  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

Imagine,  if  you  please,  a  solid  month  dedicated, 
without  interruption,  to  a  single  purpose — to  the 
study  of  a  new  language,  an  untried  science,  an 
unexplored  field  of  history,  a  fresh  department  of 
philosophy,  or  to  some  new  sphere  of  action,  some 
labor  of  humanity,  some  godlike  charity, — and  what 
visions  must  not  rise  of  untold  accumulations  of 
knowledge,  of  unnumbered  deeds  of  goodness !  Who 
of  us  does  not  each  day,  in  manifold  ways,  sacrifice 
these  precious  moments,  these  golden  hours? 

In  the  employment  of  time  will  be  found  the 
sure  means  of  happiness.  The  laborer  living  by  the 
sweat  of  his  brow,  and  the  youth  toiling  in  per- 
plexities of  business  or  study,  sighs  for  repose,  and 
repines  at  the  law  which  ordains  the  seeming  hard- 
ship of  his  lot.  He  seeks  happiness  as  the  end  and 
aim  of  life,  but  he  does  not  open  his  mind  to  the 
important  truth  that  occupation  is  indispensable  to 
happiness.  He  shuns  work,  but  he  does  riot  know 
the  precious  jewel  hidden  beneath  its  rude  attire. 

Others  there  are  who  wander  over  half  the  globe 
in  pursuit  of  what  is  found  under  the  humblest 
roof  of  virtuous  industry,  in  the  shadow  of  every 
tree  planted  by  one's  own  hand.     The  poet  has  said: 

"The  best  and  sweetest  far  are  toil-created  gains." 

But  this  does  not  disclose  the  whole  truth.  There 
is  in  useful  labor  its  own  exceeding  great  reward, 
without  regard  to  gain. 

Seek,  then,  occupation.;  seek  labor ;  seek  to  em- 
ploy all  the  faculties,  whether  in  study  or  conduct, — 
not  in  words  only,  but  in  deeds  also,  mindful  that 
"words  are  the  daughters  of  Earth,  but  deeds  are 


ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD.      81 

the  sons  of  Heaven."     So  shall  your  days  be  filled 
with  usefulness, — 

"  And  when  old  Time  shall  lead  you  to  your  end, 
Goodness  and  you  fill  up  one  monument." 

a  bridg'  ing,  shortening.  di  men'  sions,  length. 

ag'  gre  gate,  collected  together  in  one  in'  got,  gold  or  silver  cast  in  a  mold. 

sum  or  mass.  ir  rev'  o  ca  ble,  unalterable. 

cred'  it  a  ble,  honorable.  prov'  erb,  a  familiar  saying. 


ELEGY  WRITTEN   IN  A  COUNTRY  CHURCH- 
YARD. 

THOMAS   GEAY. 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 

The  plowman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 

Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tinkling  lulls  the  distant  folds : 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tow'r, 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 

Of  such  as,  wand' ring  near  her  secret  bow' r, 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mold' ring  heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid, 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 


82  THE  NE  W  CENTUR  Y  READER. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn, 

The  swallow  twitt'ring  from  the  straw-bnilt  shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care ; 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke : 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  a-field ! 
How  bow'd  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke. 

Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure ; 

Nor  grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  pow'r, 

And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave, 

Await  alike  th'  inevitable  hour: 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault, 
If  memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise, 

Where,  thro'  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn,  or  animated  bust, 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath? 
Can  honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 

Or  flatt'ry  soothe  the  dull,  cold  ear  of  death? 


ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD.     83 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire, 

Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  sway'd 
Or  wak'd  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre. 

But  knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time  did  ne'er  unroll ; 

Chill  penury  repress' d  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 

The  dark  unfathom'd  caves  of  ocean  bear: 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village-Hampden,  that,  with  dauntless  breast, 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood, 

Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest, 

Some  Cromwell  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

Th'  applause  of  list'ning  senates  to  command, 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 

To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 

And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes. 

Their  lot  forbade:  nor  circumscrib'd  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confin'd ; 

Forbade  to  wade  thro'  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind, 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide, 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame, 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  luxury  and  pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 


84  TlIE  NEW  CENTURY  HEADER. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife, 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learn' d  to  stray ; 

Along  the  cool  sequester' d  vale  of  life 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  e'en  these  bones  from  insnlt  to    protect, 
Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 

With  nnconth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  deck'd, 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  th'  unletter'd  Muse, 
The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply  : 

And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 
That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey, 
This  pleasing  anxious  being  e'er  resign' d, 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
JNor  cast  one  longing  ling' ring  look  behind? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires ; 

E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  nature  cries, 
E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  th'  unhonor'd  dead, 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate; 

If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 

Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate, — 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 

"Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away, 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn: 


ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD.     85 

"  There  at  the  foot  of -yonder  nodding  beech. 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high, 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

"Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 
Mutt' ring  his  wayward  fancies  he  would  rove ; 

Now  drooping,  woeful-wan,  like  one  forlorn, 

Or  craz'd  with  care,  or  cross' d  in  hopeless  love. 

"One  morn  I  miss'd  him  on  the  accustom' d  hill, 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  fav'rite  tree ; 

Another  came;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he : 

"The  next,  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array 

Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we  saw  him 
borne : — 

Approach  and  read"  ( for  thou  canst  read )  the  lay 
Grav'd  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn." 

THE   EPITAPH. 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth, 
A  youth,  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown : 

Fair  science  frown' d  not  on  his  humble  birth, 
And  melancholy  mark'd  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere, 
Heav'n  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send: 

He  gave  to  mis'ry  (all  he  had)  a  tear; 

He  gain'd  from  heav'n  ('twas  all  he  wish'd)  a 
friend. 


86  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose,) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 

cir  cum  scrib'd',    inclosed   within   a  her'  aid  ry,  the  science  of  honorary  dis- 
certain  limit;  bounded.  tinctions,  especially  of  armorial  bear- 

el'  e  gy,  a  mournful  or  plaintive  poem;  a  ings. 

funeral  song.  in  ev'  i  ta  ble,  unavoidable. 

fret'  ted,  ornamented  with  fretwork.  in  gen'  u  ous,  frank;  open;  candid. 

glebe,  land;  soil;  turf.  joe'  und,  merry;  cheerful. 

se  ques'  tered,  secluded;  private. 


THE  END  OF  THE  WAR. 

WILLIAM   MCKINLEY. 

{From  a  Speech  delivered  at  Omaha,  October  12, 1898.) 

It  has  been  said  that  the  normal  condition  of 
nations  is  war.  That  is  not  true  of  the  United 
States.  We  never  enter  upon  war  until  every  effort 
for  peace  without  it  has  been  exhausted.  Ours 
has  never  been  a  military  government.  Peace,  with 
whose  blessings  we  have  been  so  singularly  favored, 
is  the  national  desire  and  the  goal  of  every  American 
aspiration. 

On  the  25th  of  April,  for  the  first  time  in  more 
than  a  generation,  the  United  States  sounded  the 
call  to  arms.  The  banners  of  war  were  unfurled ; 
the  best  and  bravest  from  every  section  responded ; 
a  mighty  army  was  enrolled ;  the  North  and  the 
South  vied  with  each  other  in  patriotic  devotion ; 
the  youth  and  the  veteran  joined  in  freely  offering 
their  services  to  their  country;  there  was  no  break 


THE  END  OF  THE  WAR.  87 

in  the  line,  no  halt  in  the  march,  no  fear  in  the 
heart. 

What  a  wonderful  experience  it  has  been  from 
the  standpoint  of  patriotism  and  achievement!  The 
storm  broke  so  suddenly  that  it  was  here  almost 
before  we  realized  it.  Our  navy  was  too  small, 
though  forceful  with  its  modern  equipment,  and 
most  fortunate  in  its  trained  officers  and  sailors. 
Our  army  had  years  ago  been  reduced  to  a  peace 
footing.  We  had  only  twenty-eight  thousand  avail- 
able troops  when  the  war  was  declared,  but  the 
account  which  officers  and  men  gave  of  themselves 
on  the  battlefield  has  never  been  surpassed.  The 
manhood  was  there  and  everywhere.  American  pa- 
triotism was  there,  and  its  resources  "were  limitless. 
The  courageous  and  invincible  spirit  of  the  people 
proved  glorious,  and  those  who  a  little  more  than 
a  third  of  a  century  ago  were  divided  and  at  war 
with  each  other  were  again  united  under  the  holy 
standard  of  liberty.  Patriotism  banished  party  feel- 
ing ;  fifty  millions  of  dollars  for  the  national  defense 
were  appropriated  without  debate  or  division,  as  a 
matter  of  course. 

But  if  this  is  true  of  the  beginning  of  the  war, 
what  shall  we  say  of  it  now,  with  hostilities  sus- 
pended, and  peace  near  at  hand?  Matchless  in  its 
results!  Unequaled  in  its  completeness  and  the 
quick  succession  with  which  victory  followed  vic- 
tory! Attained  earlier  than  it  was  believed  to  be 
possible ;  so  comprehensive  in  its  sweep  that  every 
thoughtful  man  feels  the  weight  of  responsibility 
which  has  been  so  suddenly  thrust  upon  us.  And 
above  all  and  beyond  all,  the  valor  of  the  American 


88  THE  NE  W  CENTUR  Y  READER. 

army  and  the  bravery  of  the  American  navy  and 
the  majesty  of  the  American  name  stand  forth  in 
unsullied  glory,  while  the  humanity  of  our  purposes 
and  the  magnanimity  of  our  conduct  have  given  to 
war,  always  horrible,  touches  of  noble  generosity, 
Christian  sympathy  and  charity,  and  examples  of 
human  grandeur  which  can  never,  be  lost  to  man- 
kind. Passion  and  bitterness  formed  no  part  of 
our  impelling  motive,  and  it  is  gratifying  to  feel 
that  humanity  triumphed  at  every  step  of  the  war's 
progress. 

The  heroes  of  Manila,  and  Santiago,  and  Porto 
Klco  have  made  immortal  history.  They  are  worthy 
successors  and  descendants  of  Washington  and 
Greene;  -of  Paul  Jones,  Decatur,  and  Hull,  and  of 
Grant,  Sheridan,  Sherman,  and  Logan  ;  of  Farragut, 
Porter,  and  Cushing ;  —  of  Lee,  Jackson,  and  Long- 
street. 

New  names  stand  out  oh  the  honor-roll  of  the 
nation's  great  men,  and  with  them,  unnamed,  stand 
the  heroes  of  the  trenches  and  the  forecastle,  invin- 
cible in  battle  and  uncomplaining  in  death.  The 
intelligent,  loyal,  indomitable  soldier  and  sailor  and 
marine,  regular  and  volunteer,  are  entitled  to  equal 
praise  as  having  done  their  whole  duty,  whether  at 
home  or  under  the  baptism  of  foreign  tire. 

com'  pre  hen'  si ve,  extensive;  em-  gran' deur,  greatness. 

bracing  much.  mag'  na  ntm'  i  ty,  high-mindedness; 
ex  haust'  eel  (egz),  expended;  called  generosity. 

forth.  nn  sul'  lied,  unstained;  not  tarnished. 


EARLY  ENGLAND.  89 

EARLY  ENGLAND. 

JOHN   RICHARD   GREEN. 

{From  "A  Short  History  of  the  English  People.") 

For  the  fatherland  of  the  English  race  we  must 
look  far  away  from  England  itself.  In  the  fifth 
century  after  the  birth  of  Christ,  the  one  country 
which  we  know  to  have  borne  the  name  of  Angeln 
or  the  Engleland  lay  in  the  district  which  we  now 
call  Sleswick,  a  district  in  the  heart  of  the  penin- 
sula which  parts  the  Baltic  from  the  northern  seas. 

Its  pleasant  pastures,  its  black-timbered  home- 
steads, its  prim  little  townships  looking  down  on 
inlets  of  purple  water,  were  then  but  a  wild  waste 
of  heather  and  sand,  girt  along  the  coast  with  sun- 
less woodland,  broken  here  and  there  by  meadows 
which  crept  down  to  the  marshes  and  the  sea.  The 
dwellers  in  this  district,  however,  seem  to  have  been 
merely  an  outlying  fragment  of  what  was  called  the 
Engle  or  English  folk,  the  bulk  of  whom  lay  prob- 
ably along  the  middle  Elbe  and  on  the  Weser. 

To  the  north  of  the  English  in  their  Sleswick 
home  lay  another  kindred  tribe,  the  Jutes,  whose 
name  is  still  preserved  in  their  district  of  Jutland. 
To  the  south  of  them  a  number  of  German  tribes  had 
drawn  together  in  their  home  land  between  the  Elbe 
and  the  Ems,  and  in  a  wide  tract  across  the  Ems  to 
the  Rhine,  into  the  peorjle  of  the  Saxons.  Engle, 
Saxon,  and  Jute  all  belonged  to  the  same  Low  Ger- 
man branch  of  the  Teutonic  family  ;  and  at  the  mo- 
ment when  history  discovers  them,  they  were  being 
drawn  together  by  the  ties  of  a  common  blood,  com- 
mon speech,  common  social  and  political  institutions. 


90  THE  NEW  CENTUli Y  HEADER. 

Of  the  temper  and  life  of  the  folk  in  this  older 
England  we  know  little.  But,  from  the  glimpses 
which  we  catch  of  them  when  conquest  had  brought 
them  to  the  shores  of  Britain,  their  political  and 
social  organization  must  have  been  that  of  the 
German  race  to  which  they  belonged. 

The  basis  of  their  society  was  the  free  man.  He 
alone  was  known  as  "the  man,"  or  "the  churl," 
and  two  phrases  set  his  freedom  vividly  before  us. 
He  was  "the  free-necked  man,"  whose  long  hair 
floated  over  a  neck  that  had  never  bent  to  a  lord. 
He  was  "the  weaponed  man,"  who  alone  bore  spear 
and  sword,  for  he  alone  possessed  the  right  which 
in  such  a  state  of  society  formed  the  main  check 
upon  lawless  outrage,  the  right  of  private  war. 
Among  the  English,  as  among  all  the  races  of  man- 
kind, justice  had  originally  sprung  from  each  man's 
personal  action. 

There  had  been  a  time  when  every  freeman  was 
his  own  avenger.  But  even  in  the  earliest  forms 
of  English  society  of  which  we  catch  traces  this 
right  of  self-defense  was  being  modified  and  restricted 
by  a  growing  sense  of  public  justice.  The  "blood- 
wite,"  or  compensation  in  money  for  personal 
wrong,  was  the  first  effort  of  the  tribe  as  a  whole 
to  regulate  private  revenge.  The  freeman's  life  and 
the  freeman's  limb  had  each  on  this  system  its  legal 
price.  "Eye  for  eye,"  ran  the  rough  customary  code, 
and  "limb  for  limb,"  or  for  each  fair  damages. 

We  see  a  further  step  toward  the  recognition  of  a 
wrong  as  done  not  to  the  individual  man,  but  to 
the  people  at  large,  in  another  custom  of  early  date. 
The   price    of   life    or   limb    was  paid,  not  by  the 


SELF-CULTURE.  91 

wrong-doer  to  the  man  he  wronged,  but  by  the 
family  or  house  of  the  wrong-doer  to  the  family  or 
house  of  the  wronged.  Order  and  law  were  thus 
made  to  rest  in  each  little  group  of  English  people 
upon  the  blood-bond  which  knit  its  families  to- 
gether ;  every  outrage  was  held  to  have  been  done 
by  all  who  were  linked  by  blood  to  the  doer  of  it, 
every  crime  to  have  been  done  against  all  who  were 
linked  by  blood  to  the  sufferer  from  it. 

From  this  sense  of  the  value  of  the  family  bond, 
as  a  means  of  restraining  the  wrong-doer  by  forces 
which  the  tribe  as  a  whole  did  not  as  yet  possess, 
sprang  the  first  rude  forms  of  English  justice.  Each 
kinsman  was  his  kinsman' s  keeper,  bound  to  protect 
him  from  wrong,  to  hinder  him  from  wrong-doing, 
and  to  suffer  with  and  pay  for  him,  if  wrong  were 
done.  So  fully  was  this  principle  recognized  that, 
even  if  any  man  was  charged  before  his  fellow- 
tribesmen  with  crime,  his  kinsfolk  still  remained  in 
fact  his  sole  judges ;  for  it  was  by  their  solemn  oath 
of  his  innocence  or  his  guilt  that  he  had  to  stand 
or  fall. 


SELF-CULTURE. 

WILLIAM  ELLERY   CHAINING; 

{From  "A?i  Address  Introductory  to  the  Franklin  Lectures.") 

In  looking  at  our  nature,  we  discover,  among  its 
admirable  endowments,  the  sense  or  perception  of 
beauty.  We  see  the  germ  of  this  in  every  human 
being,  and  there  is  no  power  which  admits  greater 
cultivation  ;  and  why  should  it  not  be  cherished  in 


92  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

all?  It  deserves  remark,  that  the  provision  for  this 
principle  is  infinite  in  the  universe.  There  is  but  a 
very  minute  portion  of  the  creation  which  we  can 
turn  into  food  and  clothes,  or  gratification  for  the 
body ;  but  the  whole  creation  may  be  used  to  minis- 
ter to  the  sense  of  beauty. 

Beauty  is  an  all-pervading  presence.  It  unfolds 
in  the  numberless  flowers  of  the  spring.  It  waves 
in  the  branches  of  the  trees  and  the  green  blades  of 
grass.  It  haunts  the  depths  of  the  earth  and  sea,  and 
gleams  out  in  the  hues  of  the  shell  and  the  precious 
stone.  And  not  only  these  minute  objects,  but  the 
ocean,  the  mountains,  the  clouds,  the  heavens,  the 
stars,  the  rising  and  setting  sun,  all  overflow  with 
beauty.  The  universe  is  its  temple ;  and  those  men 
who  are  alive  to  it  can  not  lift  their  eyes  without  feel- 
ing themselves  encompassed  with  it  on  every  side. 

Now  this  beauty  is  so  precious,  the  enjoyments 
it  gives  are  so  refined  and  pure,  so  congenial  with 
our  tenderest  and  noblest  feelings,  and  so  akin  to 
worship,  that  it  is  painful  to  think  of  the  multi- 
tude of  men  as  living  in  the  midst  of  it,  and  living 
almost  as  blind  to  it  as  if,  instead  of  this  fair  earth 
and  glorious  sky,  they  were  tenants  of  a  dungeon. 
An  infinite  joy  is  lost  to  the  world  by  the  want  of 
culture  of  this  spiritual  endowment. 

Suppose  that  I  were  to  visit  a  cottage,  and  to  see 
it's  walls  lined  with  the  choicest  pictures  of  Raphael, 
and  every  spare  nook  filled  with  statues  of  the  most 
exquisite  workmanship,  and  that  I  were  to  learn  that 
neither  man,  woman,  nor  child  ever  cast  an  eye  at 
these  miracles  of  art,  how  should  I  feel  their  priva- 
tion!— how  should  I  want  to  open  their  eyes,  and  to 


SELF-CULTURE.  93 

help  them  to  comprehend  and  feel  the  loveliness  and 
grandeur  which  in  vain  courted  their  notice!  But 
every  husbandman  is  living  in  sight  of  the  works  of 
a  diviner  Artist ;  and  how  much  would  his  existence 
be  elevated  could  he  see  the  glory  which  shines 
forth  in  their  forms,  hues,  proportions,  and  moral 
expression ! 

I  have  spoken  only  of  the  beauty  of  nature ;  but 
how  much  of  this  mysterious  charm  is  found  in  the 
elegant  arts,  and  especially  in  literature !  The  best 
books  have  most  beauty.  The  greatest  truths  are 
wronged  if  not  linked  with  beauty,  and  they  win 
their  way  most  surely  and  deeply  into  the  soul 
when  arrayed  in  this  their  natural  and  fit  attire. 

Now  no  man  receives  the  true  culture  of  a  man 
in  whom  the  sensibility  to  the  beautiful  is  not 
cherished ;  and  I  know  of  no  condition  in  life  from 
which  it  should  be  excluded.  Of  all  luxuries,  this 
is  the  cheapest  and  #most  at  hand ;  and  it  seems  to 
me  to  be  most  important  to  those  conditions  where 
coarse  labor  tends  to  give  a  grossness  to  the  mind. 
From  the  diffusion  of  the  sense  of  beauty  in  ancient 
Greece,  and  of  the  taste  for  music  in  modern  Ger- 
many, we  learn  that  the  people  at  large  may  par- 
take of  refined  gratifications,  which  have  hitherto 
been  thought  to  be  necessarily  restricted  to  a  few. 

What  beauty  is,  is  a  question  which  the  most 
penetrating  minds  have  not  satisfactorily  answered ; 
nor,  were  I  able,  is  this  the  place  for  discussing  it. 
But  one  thing  I  would  say :  the  beauty  of  the  out- 
ward creation  is  intimately  related  to  the  lovely, 
grand,  interesting  attributes  of  the  soul.  It  is  the 
emblem  or  expression  of  these. 


94  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER 

Matter  becomes  beautiful  to  us  when  it  seems  to 
lose  its  material  aspect,  and  to  approach  spirit ;  or 
when,  in  more  awful  shapes  and  movements,  it  speaks 
of  the  Omnipotent.  Thus  outward  beauty  is  akin 
to  something  deeper  and  unseen,  is  the  reflection 
of  spiritual  attributes ;  and  of  consequence  the  way 
to  see  and  feel  it  more  and  more  keenly  is  to  culti- 
vate those  moral,  religious,  intellectual,  and  social 
principles  of  which  I  have  already  spoken,  and 
which  are  the  glory  of  the  spiritual  nature. 

en  com'  passed,  encircled.  grat'  i  fi  ca'  tion,  pleasure;  enjoyment. 

en  dow'  nient,  gift  of  nature.  haunts,  to  persist  in  staying;  visiting. 

gross' ness,  want  of  delicacy  or  refine-  min'  is  ter,  to  serve. 

ment.  Raph'  a  el  (r£f  a  el),  an  Italian  painter. 


WAITING. 

JOHN  BUKROUGHS. 

Serene,  I  fold  my  hands  and  wait, 
Nor  care  for  wind,  or  tide,  or  sea ; 

I  rave  no  more  'gainst  time  or  fate, 
For  lo !  my  own  shall  come  to  me. 

I  stay  my  haste,  I  make  delays, 
For  what  avails  this  eager  pace? 

I  stand  amid  the  eternal  ways, 

And  what  is  mine  shall  know  my  face. 

Asleep,  awake,  by  night  or  day, 
The  friends  I  seek  are  seeking  me'; 

No  wind  can  drive  my  bark  astray, 
Or  change  the  tide  of  destiny. 


4 


JOHN    GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


96  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER 

What  matter  if  I  stand  alone? 

I  wait  with  joy  the  coming  years ; 
My  heart  shall  reap  where  it  has  sown, 

And  garner  np  its  fruit  of  tears. 

The  waters  know  their  own,  and  draw 

The  brook  that  springs  in  yonder  height ; 

So  flows  the  good  with  equal  law 
Unto  the  soul  of  pure  delight. 

The  stars  come  nightly  to  the  sky ; 

The  tidal  wave  unto  the  sea ; 
Nor  time,  nor  space,  nor  deep,  nor  high, 

Can  keep  my  own  away  from  me. 


THE  NEW  YEAR. 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

{From  a  Poem  addressed  to  the  Patrons  of  the  Pennsylvania  Freeman.) 

The  wave  is  breaking  on  the  shore, — 
The  echo  fading  from  the  chime, — 

Again  the  shadow  moveth  o'er 
The  dial-plate  of  time! 

O,  seer-seen  Angel !  waiting  now 
With  weary  feet  on  sea  and  shore, 

Impatient  for  the  last  dread  vow 
That  time  shall  be  no  more! 

Once  more  across  thy  sleepless  eye 
The  semblance  of  a  smile  has  passed: 

The  year  departing  leaves  more  nigh 
Time's  fearfullest  and  last. 


CONCILIA  TION  OF  AMERICA. '  97 

O,  in  that  dying  year  hath  been 
The  sum  of  all  since  time  began, — 

The  birth  and  death,  the  joy  and  pain, 
Of  Nature  and  of  Man. 

#  #  *  *  X  *  * 

seer'  seen,  prophet-seen.  sem'  blance,  likeness;  appearance. 


CONCILIATION  OF  AMERICA. 

EDMUND    BURKE. 

(From  a  Speech  "For  Conciliation  icith  the  Colonies") 

To  restore  order  and  repose  to  an  empire  so  great 
and  so  distracted  as  ours  is,  merely  in  the  attempt, 
an  undertaking  that  would  ennoble  the  flights  of 
the  highest  genius,  and  obtain  pardon  for  the 
efforts  of  the  meanest  understanding.  Judging  of 
what  you  are  by  what  you  ought  to  be,  I  per- 
suaded myself  that  you  would  not  reject  a  reason- 
able proposition  because  it  had  nothing  but  its  rea- 
son to  recommend  it.  You  will  see  it  just  as  it  is, 
and  you  will  treat  it  just  as  it  deserves. 

The  proposition  is  peace,  simple  peace,  sought  in 
its  natural  course  and  in  its  ordinary  haunts.  I 
propose,  by  removing  the  ground  of  the  difference, 
and  by  restoring  the  former  unsuspecting  confidence 
of  the  colonies  in  the  mother  country,  to  give  per- 
manent satisfaction  to  your  people. 

The  idea  of  conciliation  is  admissible.  I  mean  to 
give  peace.  Peace  implies  reconciliation  ;  and  where 
there  has  been  a  material  dispute,  reconciliation 
does  in  a  manner  always  imply  concession  on  the 


98  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

one  part  or  on  the  other.  In  this  state  of  things  I 
make  no  difficulty  in  affirming  that  the  proposal 
ought  to  originate  from  us.  Great  and  acknowl- 
edged force  is  not  impaired,  either  in  effect  or  in 
opinion,  by  an  unwillingness  to  exert  itself.  The 
superior  power  may  offer  peace  with  honor  and  with 
safety.  Such  an  offer  from  such  a  power  will  be 
attributed  to  magnanimity.  But  the  concessions  of 
the  weak  are  the  concessions  of  fear. 

The  colonies  in  general  owe  little  or  nothing  to 
any  care  of  ours.  Through  a  wise  and  salutary 
neglect,  a  generous  nature  has  been  suffered  to  take 
her  own  way  to  perfection.  When  I  reflect  upon 
these  effects,  when  I  see  how  profitable  they  have 
been  to  us,  I  feel  all  the  pride  of  power  sink,  and 
all  presumption  in  the  wisdom  of  human  contri- 
vances melt  and  die  away  within  me  —  my  rigor 
relents  —  I  pardon  something  to  the  spirit  of  liberty. 

America,  gentlemen  say,  is  a  noble  object, — it  is 
an  object  well  worth  fighting  for.  Certainly  it  is,  if 
fighting  a  people  be  the  best  way  of  gaining  them. 
But  there  is  still  a  consideration  which  serves  to 
determine  my  opinion  on  the  sort  of  policy  which 
ought  to  be  pursued  in  the  management  of  America : 
I  mean  its  temper  and  character.  In  this  character 
of  the  Americans  a  love  of  freedom  is  the  predom- 
inating feature  which  marks  and  distinguishes  the 
whole:  and  as  an  ardent  is  always  a  jealous  affec- 
tion, your  colonies  become  suspicious,  restive,  and 
untractable  whenever  they  see  the  least  attempt  to 
wrest  from  them  by  force,  what  they  think  the  only 
advantage  worth  living  for.  This  fierce  spirit  of 
liberty  is  stronger  in  the  English  colonies,  probably, 


CONCILIATION  OF  AMERICA.  99 

than   in   any   other  people   of   the   earth,   and   this 
from  a  great  variety  of  powerful  causes. 

The  people  of  the  colonies  are  descendants  of 
Englishmen.  England,  sir,  is  a  nation  which  still, 
I  hope,  respects,  and  formerly  adored,  her  freedom. 
The  colonists  emigrated  from  you  when  this  part 
of  your  character  was  most  predominant ;  and  they 
took  this  bias  and  direction  the  moment  they  parted 
from  your  hands.  They  are  therefore  not  only 
devoted  to  liberty,  but  to  liberty  according  to  Eng- 
lish ideas  and  on  English  principles. 

From  six  capital  sources, — of  descent,  of  form  of 
government,  of  religion  in  the  northern  provinces, 
of  manners  in  the  southern,  of  education,  of  the 
remoteness  of  situation  from  the  first  mover  of 
government, — from  all  these  causes  a  fierce  spirit 
of  liberty  has  grown  up.  It  has  grown  with  the 
growth  of  the  people  in  your  colonies,  and  increased 
with  the  increase  of  their  wealth :  a  spirit,  that, 
unhappily  meeting  with  an  exercise  of  power  in 
England,  which,  however  lawful,  is  not  reconcilable 
to  any  ideas  of  liberty,  much  less  with  theirs,  has 
kindled  this  flame  that  is  ready  to  consume  us.  I 
do  not  mean  to  commend  either  the  spirit  in  this 
excess,  or  the  moral  causes  which  produce  it.  Per- 
haps a  more  smooth  and  accommodating  spirit  of 
freedom  in  them  would  be  more  acceptable  to  us. 

It  looks  to  me  to  be  narrow  and  pedantic  to 
apply  the  ordinary  ideas  of  criminal  justice  to  this 
great  public  contest.  I  do  not  know  the  method  of 
drawing  up  an  indictment  against  an  whole  people. 
I  am  not  determining  a  point  of  law ;  I  am  restor- 
ing   tranquillity;    and    the    general    character    and 


100  THE  NEW  VENWH  Y  HE  AD  EH. 

situation  of  a  people  must  determine  what  sort  of 
government  is  fitted  for  them.  That  point  nothing 
else  can  or  ought  to  determine.  My  idea,  there- 
fore, is,  to  admit  the  people  of  our  colonies  into  an 
interest  in  the  Constitution,  and  to  give  them  as 
strong  an  assurance  as  the  nature  of  the  thing  will 
admit  that  we  mean  forever  to  adhere  to  that 
solemn  declaration  of  systematic  indulgence. 


But  to  clear  up  my  ideas  on  this  subject, — a  rev- 
enue from  America  transmitted  hither.  Do  not  delude 
yourselves:  you  can  never  receive  it, — no,  not  a 
shilling.  We  have  experience  that  from  remote 
countries  it  is  not  to  be  expected.  For  all  service, 
whether  of  revenue,  trade,  or  empire,  my  trust  is- 
in  her  interest  in  the  British  Constitution.  My 
hold  of  the  colonies  is  in  the  close  affection  which 
grows  from  common  names,  from  kindred  blood, 
from  similar  privileges,  and  equal  protection.  These 
are  ties  which,  though  light  as  air,  are  as  strong 
as  links  of  iron.  Let  the  colonies  always  keep  the 
idea  of  their  civil  rights  associated  with  your  gov- 
ernment—  they  will  cling  and  grapple  to  you,  and 
no  force  under  heaven  will  be  of  power  to  tear 
them  from  their  allegiance.  But  let  it  be  once 
understood  that  your  government  may  be  one  thing 
and  their  privileges  another ;  that  these  two  things 
may  exist  without  any  mutual  relation, — the  cement 
is  gone;  the  cohesion  is  loosened,  and  everything 
hastens  to  decay  and  dissolution. 

As  long  as  you  have  the  wisdom  to  keep  the 
sovereign  authority  of  this  country  as  the  sanctuary 


CONCILIATION  OF  AMEBIC^  \  {Ok. 

of  liberty,  the  sacred  temple  consecrated  to  our 
common  faith,  wherever  the  chosen  race  and  sons  of 
England  worship  freedom,  they  will  turn  their  faces 
towards  you.  The  more  they  multiply,  the  more 
friends  you  will  have ;  the  more  ardently  they  love 
liberty,  the  more  perfect  will  be  their  obedience. 
Slavery  they  can  have  anywhere.  It  is  a  weed  that 
grows  in  every  soil.  But,  until  you  become  lost  to 
all  feeling  of  your  true  interest  and  your  natural 
dignity,  freedom  they  can  have  from  none  but  you. 

This  is  the  commodity  of  price,  of  which  you 
have  the  monopoly.  This  is  the  true  Act  of  Navi- 
gation, which  binds  to  you  the  commerce  of  the 
colonies,  and  through  them  secures  to  you  the  wealth 
of  the  world.  Deny  them  this  participation  of  free- 
dom, and  you  break  that  sole  bond  which  originally 
made,  and  must  still  preserve,  the  unity  of  the 
empire.  It  is  the  spirit  of  the  English  Constitution, 
which,  infused  through  the  mighty  mass,  pervades, 
feeds,  unites,  invigorates,  vivifies  every  part  of  the 
empire,  even  down  to  the  minutest  member.  Is  it 
not  the  same  virtue  which  does  everything  for  us 
here  in  England  ? 

All  this,  I  know  well  enough,  will  sound  wild  and 
chimerical  to  the  profane  herd  of  those  vulgar  and 
mechanical  politicians  who  have  no  place  among  us : 
a  sort  of  people  who  think  that  nothing  exists  but 
what  is  gross  and  material, — and  who,  therefore,  far 
from  being  qualified  to  be  directors  of  the  great 
movement  of  empire,  are  not  fit  to  turn  a  wheel  in 
the  machine.  But  to  men  truly  initiated  and  rightly 
taught,  these  ruling  and  master  principles,  which 
in  the  opinion  of  such  men  as  I  have   mentioned 


10JJ  TgB  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

have  no  substantial  existence,  are  in  truth  every- 
thing, and  all  in  all. 

Magnanimity  in  politics  is  not  seldom  the  truest 
wisdom ;  and  a  great  empire  and  little  minds  go  ill 
together.  If  we  are  conscious  of  our  situation,  and 
glow  with  zeal  to  fill  our  place  as  becomes  our  sta- 
tion and  ourselves,  we  ought  to  auspicate  all  our 
public  proceedings  on  America  with  the  old  warning 
of  the  church,  Sursum  Cor  da  I1  We  ought  to  ele- 
vate our  minds  to  the  greatness  of  that  trust  to 
which  the  order  of  Providence  has  called  us.  By 
adverting  to  the  dignity  of  this  high  calling  our 
ancestors  have  turned  a  savage  wilderness  into  a 
glorious  empire,  and  have  made  the  most  extensive 
and  the  only  honorable  conquests,  not  by  destroy- 
ing, but  by  promoting  the  wealth,  the  number,  the 
happiness  of  the  human  race. 

al  le'  giance  (jans),  loyalty.  in  diet'  ment  (dlt),  a  written  accusation 

aus'  pi  cate,  to  inaugurate;  to  begin.  of  crime. 

chi  mer'i  cal,  imaginary;  fanciful.  par'  tic  i  pa'  tion,  act  of  sharing  with 

cohe'sion  (zhun),  that  which  binds  others. 

together.  sov'  er  eign  (suv'  er  In)  supreme;  highest. 

viv'  i  fies,  animates;  inspires  it  with  life. 


HYMN. 

(Before  Sunrise  in  the  Vale  op  Chamouni.) 
SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning-star 
In  his  steep  course?    So  long  he  seems  to  pause 
On  thy  bald  awful  head,  O  sovran  Blanc! 
The  Arve  and  Arveiron  at  thy  base 

i  Lift  up  your  hearts. 


HYMN.  103 

Rave  ceaselessly ;  but  thou,  most  awful  Form ! 
Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines, 
How  silently !     Around  thee  and  above 
Deep  is  the  air  and  dark,  substantial,  black, 
An  ebon  mass :  methinks  thou  piercest  it, 
As  with  a  wedge !     But  when  I  look  again, 
It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal  shrine, 
Thy  habitation  from  eternity! 

0  dread  and  silent  Mount !     I  gazed  upon  thee, 
Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense, 

Didst  vanish  from  my  thought :  entranced  in  prayer 

1  worshiped  the  Invisible  alone. 


Awake,  my  soul!  not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest !  not  alone  these  swelling  tears, 
Mute  thanks  and  secret  ecstasy !     Awake, 
Voice  of  sweet  song !     Awake,  my  Heart,  awake ! 
Green  vales  and  icy  cliffs,  all  join  my  Hymn. 


Thou  too  again,  stupendous  Mountain !  thou 

That  as  I  raise  my  head,  awhile  bowed  low 

In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base 

Slow  traveling  with  dim  eyes  suffused  with  tears, 

Solemnly  seemest,  like  a  vapory  cloud, 

To  rise  before  me  —  Rise,  O  ever  rise, 

Rise  like  a  cloud  of  incense  from  the  earth! 


104  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

ABOU  BEN  ADHEM. 

LEIGH  HUNT. 

Abou  Ben  Adhem  (may  his  tribe  increase!) 
Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream  of  peace, 
And  saw,  within  the  moonlight  in  his  room, 
Making  it  rich,  and  like  a  lily  in  bloom, 
An  angel  writing  in  a  book  of  gold: 
Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Adhem  bold, 
And  to  the  presence  in  the  room  he  said 
"What  writest  thou?" — The  vision  raised  its  head, 
And  with  a  look  made  of  all  sweet  accord, 
Answered,  "The  names  of  those  who  love  the  Lord." 
"And  is  mine  one?"  said  Abon.     "Nay,  not  so," 
Replied  the  angel.     Abon  spoke  more  low, 
Bnt  cheerily  still;  and  said,   "I  pray  thee,  then, 
Write  me  as  one  that  loves  his  fellow-men." 

The  angel  wrote  and  vanished.     The  next  night 
It  came  again,  with  a  great  wakening  light, 
And  showed  the  names  whom  love  of  God  had  blessed, 
And  lo !  Ben  Adhem' s  name  led  all  the  rest. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  HASTINGS. 

EDWARD  AUGUSTUS  FREEMAN. 

(Extract  from  "A  Short  History  of  the  Normitti  Conquest.") 

Meanwhile  King  Harold  marshalled  his  army  on 
the  hill,  to  defend  their  strong  post  against  the 
attack  of  the  Normans.  All  were  on  foot;  those 
who  had  horses  made  use  of  them  only  to  carry 
them  to  the  field,  and  got  down  when  the  time 
came  for  actual  fighting. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  HASTINGS.  105 

The  army  was  made  up  of  soldiers  of  two  very 
different  kinds.  There  was  the  King's  personal 
following,  his  house-carls,  his  own  thanes,  and  the 
picked  troops  generally,  among  them  the  men  of 
London  who  claimed  to  be  the  King's  special 
guards,  and  the  men  of  Kent  who  claimed  to 
strike  the  first  blow  in  the  battle.  The  Norman 
writers  were  specially  struck  with  the  close  array 
of  the  English,  and  they  speak  of  them  as  stand- 
ing like  trees  in  a  wood.  Besides  these  choice 
troops,  there  were  also  the  general  levies  of  the 
neighboring  lands,  who  came  armed  anyhow,  with 
such  weapons  as  they  could  get,  the  bow  being  the 
rarest  of  all. 

These  inferior  troops  were  placed  to  the  right, 
on  the  least  exposed  part  of  the  hill,  while  the 
King  with  his  choice  troops  stood  ready  to  meet 
Duke  William  himself.  The  King  stood  between 
his  two  ensigns,  the  national  badge,  the  dragon 
of  Wessex,  and  his  own  standard,  a  great  flag 
with  the  figure  of  a  fighting  man  wrought  on  it  in 
gold.  Close  by  the  King  stood  his  brothers  Gyrth 
and  Leof  wine,  and  his  other  kinsfolk  —  among 
them  doubtless  his  uncle  iElfwig,  the  Abbot  of  the 
New  Minster  at  Winchester,  who  came  to  the  fight 
with  twelve  of   his   monks. 

By  nine  in  the  morning,  the  Normans  had 
reached  the  hill  of  Senlac,  and  the  fight  began.  First 
came  a  flight  of  arrows  from  each  division  of  the 
Norman  army.  Then  the  heavy-armed  foot  pressed 
on,  to  make  their  way  up  the  hill,  and  to  break 
down  the  palisade.  But  the  English  hurled  their 
javelins  at  them  as  they  came  up,  and  cut  them  down 


106  THE  NEW  CENTURY  HEADER. 

with  their  axes  when  they  came  near  enough  for 
handstrokes.  The  Normans  shouted  "God  help 
us;"  the  English  shouted  "God  Almighty,"  and  the 
King's  own  war-cry  of  "Holy  Cross" — the  Holy 
Cross  of  Waltham. 

William's  heavy-armed  foot  pressed  on  along  the 
whole  line,  the  native  Normans  having  to  face  King 
Harold's  chosen  troops  in  the  center.  The  attack 
was  vain ;  they  were  beaten  back,  and  they  could 
not  break  down  the  palisade.  Then  the  horsemen 
themselves,  the  Duke  at  their  head,  pressed  on  up 
the  hillside. 

But  all  was  in  vain ;  the  English  kept  their  strong 
ground ;  the  Normans  had  to  fall  back ;  the  Bretons 
on  the  left  actually  turned  and  fled.  Then  the 
worse-armed  and  less  disciplined  English  troops 
could  not  withstand  the  temptation  to  come  down 
from  the  hill  and  chase  them.  The  whole  line  of 
the  Norman  army  began  to  waver,  and  in  many 
parts  to  give  way. 

A  tale  spread  that  the  Duke  was  killed.  William 
showed  himself  to  his  troops,  and  with  his  words, 
looks,  and  blows,  helped  by  his  brother  the  Bishop, 
he  brought  them  back  to  the  fight.  The  flying 
Bretons  now  took  heart ;  they  turned,  and  cut  in 
pieces  the  English  who  were  chasing  them.  Thus 
far  the  resistance  of  the  English  had  been  thor- 
oughly successful,  wherever  they  had  obeyed  the 
King's  orders  and  kept  within  their  defenses.  But 
the  fault  of  those  who  had  gone  down  to  follow  the 
enemy  had  weakened  the  line  of  defense,  and  had 
shown  the  Normans  the  true  way  of  winning  the  day. 

Now  came  the  fiercest  struggle  of  the  whole  day. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  HASTINGS.  107 

The  Duke  and  his  immediate  following  tried  to 
break  their  way  into  the  English  enclosure  at  the 
very  point  where  the  King  stood  by  his  standard 
with  his  brothers.  The  two  rivals  were  near  coming 
face  to  face.  At  that  moment  Earl  Gyrth  hurled 
his  spear,  which  missed  the  Duke,  but  killed  his 
horse  and  brought  his  rider  to  the  ground.  William 
then  pressed  to  the  barricade  on  foot,  and  slew 
Gyrth  in  hand  to  hand  fight.  At  the  same  time 
the  King's  other  brother,  Earl  Leofwine,  was  killed. 

The  Duke  mounted  another  horse,  and  again 
pressed  on ;  but  the  barricade  and  the  shield- wall 
withstood  all  attempts.  On  the  right  the  attack  of 
the  French  division  had  been  more  lucky ;  the  pali- 
sade was  partly  broken  down.  But  the  English, 
with  their  shields  and  axes,  still  kept  their  ground, 
and  the  Normans  were  unable  to  gain  the  top  of 
the  hill  or  to  come  near  the  standard. 

The  battle  had  now  gone  on  for  several  hours, 
and  Duke  William  saw  that,  unless  he  quite  changed 
his  tactics,  he  had  no  hope  of  overcoming  the  resist- 
ance of  the  English.  They  had  suffered  a  great  loss 
in  the  death  of  the  two  earls,  and  their  defenses 
were  weakened  at  some  points  ;  but  the  army,  as  a 
whole,  held  its  ground  as  firmly  as  ever. 

William  then  tried  a  most  dangerous  strategy, 
his  taking  to  which  shows  how  little  hope  he  now 
had  of  gaining  the  day  by  any  direct  attack.  He 
saw  that  his  only  way  was  to  bring  the  English 
down  from  the  hill,  as  part  of  them  had  already 
come  down.  He  therefore  bade  his  men  feign  flight. 
The  Normans  obeyed ;  the  whole  host  seemed  to  be 
flying.      The  irregular  levies  of  the  English  on  the 


108  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

right  again  broke  their  line ;  they  ran  down  the  hill, 
and  left  the  part  where  its  ascent  was  most  easy 
open  to  the  invaders.  The  Normans  now  turned 
on  their  pursuers,  put  most  of  them  to  flight,  and 
were  able  to  ride  up  the  part  of  the  hill  which  was 
left  undefended,  seemingly,  about  three  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon.  The  English  had  thus  lost  the  advan- 
tage of  the  ground ;  they  had  now,  on  foot,  with 
only  the  bulwark  of  their  shields,  to  withstand 
the  horsemen.  This,  however,  they  still  did  for 
some  hours  longer.  But  the  advantage  was  now  on 
the  Norman  side,  and  the  battle  changed  into  a 
series  of  single  combats.  The  great  object  of  the 
Normans  was  to  cut  their  way  to  the  standard, 
where  King  Harold  still  fought.  Many  men  were 
killed  in  the  attempt;  the  resistance  of  the  English 
grew  slacker;  yet,  when  evening  was  coming  on, 
they  still  fought  on  with  their  King  at  their  head, 
and  a  new  device  of  the  Duke's  was  needed  to 
bring  the  battle  to  an  end. 

This  new  device  was  to  bid  his  archers  shoot  in 
the  air,  that  their  arrows  might  fall,  as  he  said, 
like  bolts  from  heaven.  They  were  of  course  bidden 
specially  to  aim  at  those  who  fought  round  the 
standard.  Meanwhile,  twenty  knights  bound  them- 
selves to  lower  or  bear  off  the  standard  itself.  The 
archers  shot ;  the  knights  pressed  on  ;  and  one  arrow 
had  the  deadliest  effect  of  all ;  it  pierced  the  right 
eye  of  King  Harold.  He  sank  down  by  the  stand- 
ard ;  most  of  the  twenty  knights  were  killed,  but 
four  reached  the  King  while  he  still  breathed,  slew  him 
with  many  wounds,  and  carried  off  the  two  ensigns. 

It  was  now  evening ;   but,  though  the  King  was 


ABSALOM.  109 

dead,  the  light  still  went  on.  Of  the  King's  own 
chosen  troops  it  wonld  seem  that  not  a  man  either 
fled  or  was  taken  rjrisoner.  All  died  at  their  posts, 
save  a  few  wounded  men  who  were  cast  aside 
as  dead,  but  found  strength  to  get  away  on  the 
morrow.  But  the  irregular  levies  fled,  some  of  them 
on  the  horses  of  the  slain  men.  Yet,  even  in  this 
last  moment,  they  knew  how  to  revenge  themselves 
on  their  conquerors.  The  Normans,  ignorant  of  the 
country,  pursued  in  the  dark.  The  English  were 
thus  able  to  draw  them  to  the  dangerous  place 
behind  the  hill,  where  not  a  few  Normans  were 
slain.  But  the  Duke  himself  came  back  to  the  hill, 
pitched  his  tent  there,  held  his  midnight  feast,  and 
watched  there  with  his  host  all  night. 


ABSALOM. 

NATHANIEL   PARKER  WILLIS. 

The  waters  slept.     Night's  silvery  veil  hung  low 
On  Jordan's  bosom,  and  the  eddies  curl'd 
Their  glassy  rings  beneath  it,  like  the  still, 
Unbroken  beating  of  the  sleeper's  pulse. 
The  reeds  bent  down  the  stream ;  the  willow  leaves, 
With  a  soft  cheek  upon  the  lulling  tide, 
Forgot  the  lifting  winds;  and  the  long  stems, 
Whose  flowers  the  water,  like  a  gentle  nurse, 
Bears  on  its  bosom,  quietly  gave  way, 
And  lean'd,  in  graceful  attitudes  to  rest. 
How  strikingly  the  course  of  nature  tells, 
By  its  light  heed  of  human  suffering, 
That  it  was  fashion' d  for  a  happier  world! 


110  THE  NEW  CENTURY  HEADEll 

King  David's  limbs  were  weary.     He  had  fled 
From  far  Jerusalem  ;  and  now  he  stood, 
With  his  faint  people,  for  a  little  rest 
Upon  the  shore  of  Jordan.     The  light  wind 
Of  morn  was  stirring,  and  he  bared  his  brow 
To  its  refreshing  breath ;  for  he  had  worn 
The  mourner's  covering,  and  he  had  not  felt 
That  he  could  see  his  people  until  now. 
They  gathered  round  him  on  the  fresh  green  bank, 
And  spoke  their  kindly  words ;  and,  as  the  sun 
Rose  up  in  heaven,  he  knelt  among  them  there, 
And  bow'd  his  head  upon  his  hands  to  pray. 
Oh!  when  the  heart  is  full — when  bitter  thoughts 
Come  crowding  thickly  up  for  utterance, 
And  the  poor  common  words  of  courtesy 
Are  such  an  empty  mockery  —  how  much 
The  bursting  heart  may  pour  itself  in  prayer! 
He  pray'd  for  Israel — and  his  voice  went  up 
Strongly  and  fervently.     He  prayed  for  those 
Whose  love  had  been  his  shield  —  and  his  deep  tones 
Grew  tremulous.     But,  oh  !  for  Absalom  — 
For  his  estranged,  misguided  Absalom  — 
The  proud,  bright  being,  who  had  burst  away 
In  all  his  princely ' beauty,  to  defy 
The  heart  that  cherish' d  him  —  for  him  he  poured, 
In  agony  that  would  not  be  controlled, 
Strong  supplication,  and  forgave  him  there, 
Before  his  God,  for  his  deep  sinfulness.    *     *    * 

The  pall  was  settled.     He  who  slept  beneath 
Was  straightened  for  the  grave ;  and,  as  the  folds 
Sank  to  the  still  proportions,  they  betrayed 
The  matchless  symmetry  of  Absalom. 


ABSALOM.  Ill 

His  hair  was  yet  unshorn,  and  silken  curls 

Were  floating  round  the  tassels  as  they  sway'd 

To  the  admitted  air,  as  glossy  now 

As  when,  in  hours  of  gentle  dalliance,  bathing 

The  snowy  fingers  of  Judea's  daughters. 

His  helm  was  at  his  feet;  his  banner,  soil'd 

With  trailing  through  Jerusalem,  was  laid, 

Reversed,  beside  him ;  and  the  jewel' d  hilt, 

Whose  diamonds  lit  the  passage  of  his  blade, 

Rested,  like  mockery,  on  his  cover' d  brow. 

The  soldiers  of  the  king  trod  to  and  fro, 

Clad  in  the  garb  of  battle ;  and  their  chief, 

The  mighty  Joab,  stood  beside  the  bier, 

And  gazed  upon  the  dark  pall  steadfastly, 

As  if  he  feared  the  slumberer  might  stir. 

A  slow  step  startled  him.     He  grasped  his  blade 

As  if  a  trumpet  rang ;  but  the  bent  form 

Of  David  enter' d,  and  he  gave  command, 

In  a  low  tone,  to  his  few  followers, 

And  left  him  with  his  dead.     The  king  stood  still 

Till  the  last  echo  died ;  then,  throwing  off 

The  sackcloth  from  his  brow,  and  laying  back 

The  pall  from  the  still  features  of  his  child, 

He  bow'd  his  head  upon  him,  and  broke  forth 

In  the  resistless  eloquence  of  woe : 

"Alas!  my  noble  boy!  that  thou  shouldst  die.' 
Thou,  who  wert  mac^e  so  beautifully  fair ! 

That  death  should  settle  in  thy  glorious  eye, 
And  leave  his  stillness  in  this  clustering  hair ! 

How  could  he  mark  thee  for  the  silent  tomb ! 
My  proud  boy,  Absalom ! 


112  THE  NEW  CENTURY.  READER. 

"Cold  is  thy  brow,  my  son!  and  I  am  chill 
As  to  my  bosom  I  have  tried  to  press  thee! 

How  was  I  wont  to  feel  my  pulses  thrill, 

Like  a  rich  harp-string,  yearning  to  caress  thee, 

And  hear  thy  sweet  'My  father. n  from  these  dumb 
And  cold  lips,  Absalom ! 

"But  death  is  on  thee.     I  shall  hear  the  gush 
Of  music,  and  the  voices  of  the  young ; 

And  life  will  pass  me  in  the  mantling  blush, 
And  the  dark  tresses  to  the  soft  winds  flung ; 

But  thou  no  more,  with  thy  sweet  voice,  shalt  come 
To  meet  me,  Absalom ! 

"And  oh!  when  I  am  stricken,  and  my  heart, 
Like  a  bruised  reed,  is  waiting  to  be  broken, 

How  will  its  love  for  thee,  as  I  depart, 

Yearn  for  thine  ear  to  drink  its  last  deep  token ! 

It  were  so  sweet,  amid  death's  gathering  gloom, 
To  see  thee,  Absalom ! 

"And  now,  farewell!    'Tis  hard  to  give  thee  up, 
With  death  so  like  a  gentle  slumber  on  thee ; — 

And  thy  dark  sin !  —  Oh !  I  could  drink  the  cup, 
If  from  this  woe  its  bitterness  had  won  thee. 

May  God  have  call'd  thee,  like  a  wanderer,  home, 
My  lost  boy,  Absalom!" 

He  covered  up  his  face,  and  bow'd  himself 
A  moment  on  his  child :  then,  giving  him 
A  look  of  melting  tenderness,  he  clasp' d 
His  hands  convulsively,  as  if  in  prayer; 


FIRST  ORATION  ON  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.    113 

And,  as  if  strength  were  given  him  of  God, 
He  rose  up  calmly,  and  composed  the  pall 
Firmly  and  decently  —  and  left  him  there — 
As  if  his  rest  had  been  a  breathing  sleep. 

bier,  a  frame  on  which  a  corpse  is  placed  pall,  covering  thrown  over  a  dead  body. 

or  borne  to  the  grave.  sack'  cloth',  garment  or  cloth  worn  in 
con  vul'  sive  ly,  with  violent  and  irreg-  mourning. 

ular  motion  or  agitation. 


FIRST  ORATION  ON  BUNKER  HILL 
MONUMENT. 

DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

{From  a  Speech  made  on  the  laying  of  the  corner  stone  of  the  Bunker  Hill 
Monument,  June  17, 1825.) 

This  uncounted  multitude  before  me  and  around 
me  proves  the  feeling  which  the  occasion  has  excited. 
These  thousands  of  human  faces,  glowing  with  sym- 
pathy and  joy,  and  from  the  impulses  of  a  common 
gratitude  turned  reverently  to  heaven  in  this  spacious 
temple  of  the  firmament,  proclaim  that  the  day,  the 
place,  and  the  purpose  of  our  assembling  have  made 
a  deep  impression  on  our  hearts. 

If,  indeed,  there  be  anything  in  local  association 
fit  to  affect  the  mind  of  man,  we  need  not  strive  to 
repress  the  emotions  which  agitate  us  here.  We  are 
among  the  sepulchers  of  our  fathers.  We  are  on 
ground  distinguished  by  their  valor,  their  constancy, 
and  the  shedding  of  their  blood.  We  are  here,  not 
to  fix  an  uncertain  date  in  our  annals,  nor  to  draw 
into  notice  an  obscure  and  unknown  spot.  If  our 
humble  purpose  had  never  been  conceived,  if  we  our- 
selves had  never  been  born,  the  17th  of  June,  1775, 


BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT. 


FIRST  ORATION  ON  BUNKER  IIlLL  MONUMENT.    llS 

would  liave  been  a  day  on  which  all  subsequent  his- 
tory would  have  poured  its  light,  and  the  eminence 
where  we  stand  a  point  of  attraction  to  the  eyes  of 
successive  generations.     But  we  are  Americans. 

We  live  in  what  may  be  called  the  early  age  of 
this  great  continent ;  and  we  know  that  our  posterity, 
through  all  time,  are  here  to  enjoy  and  suffer  the 
allotments  of  humanity.  We  see  before  us  a  prob- 
able train  of  great  events ;  we  know  that  our  own 
fortunes  have  been  happily  cast ;  and  it  is  natural, 
therefore,  that  we  should  be  moved  by  the  contem- 
plation of  occurrences  which  have  guided  our  destiny 
before  many  of  us  were  born,  and  settled  the  con- 
dition in  which  we  should  pass  that  portion  of  our 
existence  which  God  allows  to  men  on  earth. 

We  do  not  read  even  of  the  discovery  of  this 
continent,  without  feeling  something  of  a  personal 
interest  in  the  event ;  without  being  reminded  how 
much  it  has  aftected  our  own  fortunes  and  our  own 
existence. 

It  would  be  still  more  unnatural  for  us,  therefore, 
than  for  others,  to  contemplate  with  unaffected  minds 
that  interesting,  I  may  say  that  most  touching  and 
pathetic  scene,  when  the  great  discoverer  of  America 
stood  on  the  deck  of  his  shattered  bark,  the  shades 
of  night  falling  on  the  sea,  yet  no  man  sleeping; 
tossed  on  the  billows  of  an  unknown  ocean,  yet  the 
stronger  billows  of  alternate  hope  and  despair  toss- 
ing his  own  troubled  thoughts ;  extending  forward 
his  harassed  frame,  straining  westward  his  anxious 
and  eager  eyes,  till  Heaven  at  last  granted  him  a 
moment  of  rapture  and  ecstasy,  in  blessing  his 
vision  with  the  sight  of  the  unknown  world. 


116  THE  NE  W  CENTUR  Y  HEADER. 

Nearer  to  our  times,  more  closely  connected  with 
our  fates,  and  therefore  still  more  interesting  to  our 
feelings  and  affections,  is  the  settlement  of  our  own 
country  by  colonists  from  England.  We  cherish 
every  memorial  of  these  worthy  ancestors ;  we  cele- 
brate their  patience  and  fortitude ;  we  admire  their 
daring  enterprise ;  we  teach  our  children  to  vener- 
ate their  piety ;  and  we  are  justly  proud  of  being 
descended  from  men  who  have  set  the  world  an 
example  of  founding  civil  institutions  on  the  great 
and  united  principles  of  human  freedom  and  human 
knowledge.  To  us,  their  children,  the  story  of 
their  labors  and  sufferings  can  never  be  without  its 
interest. 

We  know,  indeed,  that  the  record  of  illustrious 
actions  is  most  safely  deposited  in  the  universal 
remembrance  of  mankind.  We  know,  that  if  we 
could  cause  this  structure  to  ascend,  not  only  till 
it  reached' the  skies,  but  till  it  pierced  them,  its  broad 
surfaces  could  still  contain  but  part  of  that  which, 
in  an  age  of  knowledge,  hath  already  been  spread 
over  the  earth,  and  which  history  charges  itself  with 
making  known  to  all  future  times.  We  know  that 
no  inscription  on  entablatures  less  broad  than  the 
earth  itself  can  carry  information  of  the  events  we 
commemorate  where  it  has  not  already  gone;  and 
that  no  structure,  which  shall  not  outlive  the  dura- 
tion of  letters  and  knowledge  among  men,  can  pro- 
long the  memorial. 

But  our  object  is,  by  this  edifice,  to  show  our 
own  deep  sense  of  the  value  and  importance  of  the 
achievements  of  our  ancestors;  and,  by  presenting 
this  work  of  gratitude  to  the  eye,  to  keep  alive 


FIRST  ORATION  ON  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.    117 

similar  sentiments,  and  to  foster  a  constant  regard 
for  the  principles  of  the  Revolution.  Let  it  not  be 
supposed  that  our  object  is  to  perpetuate  national 
hostility,  or  even  to  cherish  a  mere  military  spirit. 
It  is  higher,  purer,  nobler.  We  consecrate  our  work 
to  the  spirit  of  national  independence,  and  we  wish 
that  the  light  of  peace  may  rest  upon  it  forever. 
We  rear  a  memorial  of  our  conviction  of  that  un- 
measured benefit  which  has  been  conferred  on  our 
own  land,  and  of  the  happy  influences  which  have 
been  produced,  by  the  same  events,  on  the  general 
interests  of  mankind.  We  come,  as  Americans,  to 
mark  a  spot  which  must  forever  be  dear  to  us  and 
our  posterity. 

We  wish  that  whosoever,  in  all  coming  time,  shall 
turn  his  eye  hither,  may  behold  that  the  place  is 
not  undistinguished  where  the  first  great  battle  of  the 
Revolution  was  fought.  We  wish  that  this  struc- 
ture may  proclaim  the  magnitude  and  importance  of 
that  event  to  every  class  and  every  age.  We  wish 
that  infancy  may  learn  the  purpose  of  its  erection 
from  maternal  lips,  and  that  weary  and  withered  age 
may  behold  it,  and  be  solaced  by  the  recollections 
which  it  suggests.  We  wish  that  labor  may  look 
up  here,  and  be  proud,  in  the  midst  of  its  toil. 

We  wish  that,  in  those  days  of  disaster,  which, 
as  they  come  upon  all  nations,  must  be  expected 
to  come  upon  us  also,  desponding  patriotism  may 
turn  its  eyes  hitherward,  and  be  assured  that  the 
foundations  of  our  national  power  are  still  strong. 
We  wish  that  this  column,  rising  towards  heaven 
among  the  pointed  spires  of  so  many  temples  dedi- 
cated to  God,  may  contribute  also  to  produce,  in  all 


118  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

minds,  a  pious  feeling  of  dependence  and  gratitude. 
We  wish,  finally,  that  the  last  object  to  the  sight 
of  him  who  leaves  his  native  shore,  and  the  first  to 
gladden  him  who  revisits  it,  may  be  something 
which  shall  remind  him  of  the  liberty  and  the 
glory  of  his  country.  Let  it  rise !  let  it  rise,  till  it 
meet  the  sun  in  his  coming ;  let  the  earliest  light 
of  the  morning  gild  it,  and  parting  day  linger  and 
play  on  its  summit. 

We  still  have  among  us  some  of  those  who  were 
active  agents  in  the  scenes  of  1775,  and  who  are 
now  here,  to  visit  once  more,  this  renowned  theater 
of  their  courage  and  patriotism. 

Venerable  men  !  you  have  come  down  to  us 
from  a  former  generation.  You  are  now  where  you 
stood  fifty  years  ago,  this  very  hour,  with  your 
brothers  and  your  neighbors,  shoulder  to  shoulder, 
in  the  strife  for  your  country.  Behold,  how  altered  ! 
The  same  heavens  are  indeed  over  your  heads ;  the 
same  ocean  rolls  at  your  feet ;  but  all  else  how 
changed !  All  is  peace ;  and  God  has  granted  you 
this  sight  of  your  country's  happiness,  ere  you 
slumber  in  the  grave. 

Let  the  sacred  obligations  which  have  devolved 
on  this  generation,  and  on  us,  sink  deep  into  our 
hearts.  Those  who  established  our  liberty  and  our 
government  are  daily  dropping  from  among  us.  The 
great  trust*  now  descends  to  new  hands.  Let  us 
apply  ourselves  to  that  which  is  presented  to  us, 
as  our  appropriate  object.  We  can  win  no  laurels 
in  a  war  for  independence.  Earlier  and  worthier 
hands  have  gathered  them  all.  Nor  are  there 
places  for  us  by  the  side  of  Solon,  and  Alfred,  and 


FIRST  ORATION  ON  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.    119 

other  founders  of  States.  Our  fathers  have  filled 
them.  But  there  remains  to  us  a  great  duty  of 
defense  and  preservation ;  and  there  is  opened  to  us, 
also,  a  noble  pursuit,  to  which  the  spirit  of  the 
times  strongly  invites  us. 

Our  proper  business  is  improvement.  Let  our 
age  be  the  age  of  improvement.  In  a  day  of  peace, 
let  us  advance  the  arts  of  peace  and  the  works  of 
peace.  Let  us  develop  the  resources  of  our  land, 
call  forth  its  powers,  build  up  its  institutions,  pro- 
mote all  its  great  interests,  and  see  whether  we 
also,  in  our  day  and  generation,  may  not  perform 
something  worthy  to  be  remembered.  Let  us  culti- 
vate a  true  spirit  of  union  and  harmony.  In  pur- 
suing the  great  objects  which  our  condition  points 
out  to  us,  let  us  act  under  a  settled  conviction, 
and  an  habitual  feeling,  that  these  twenty-four 
States  are  one  country.  Let  us  extend  our  ideas 
over  the  whole  of  the  vast  field  in  which  we  are 
called  to  act.     Let  our  object  be,  our  country,  our 

WHOLE  COUNTRY,    AND   NOTHING  BUT    OUR    COUNTRY. 

And,  by  the  blessing  of  God,  may  that  country 
itself  become  a  vast  and  splendid  monument,  not 
of  oppression  and  terror,  but  of  Wisdom,  of  Peace, 
and  of  Liberty,  upon  which  the  world  may  gaze 
with  admiration  forever! 

fir'  ma  ment,  the  sky;  the  heavens.  in  scrip'  tion,  something  written  or 

for'ti tucle,  endurance;  courage;  bravery.  eDgraved. 

liar'  asset!  (ast),  worn  or  tired  out  with  mater'nal  of  or  pertaining  to  a  mother. 

cares,  etc.  sep'  ul  cher  (ker),  tomb. 

il  lus'  tri  ous,  noble ;  renowned.  sol'  ace,  to  comfort. 


120  THE  NEW  CENTURY  HEADER. 


THE  ST.  BERNARD  HOSPICE. 

HARRIET  BEECHER   STOWE. 

(From  the  "Ascent  to  St.  Bernard,'''  in  "Sunny  Memories  of  Foreign  Lands.") 

Our  path  lay  up  a  desolate  mountain  gorge. 
After  we  had  ascended  some  way  the  cold  became 
intense.  The  mountain  torrent,  by  the  side  of  which 
we  went  up,  leaped  and  tumbled  under  ribs  of  ice, 
and  through  banks  of  snow. 

I  noticed  on  either  side  of  the  defile  that  there 
were  high  posts  put  up  on  the  rocks,  and  a  cord 
stretched  from  one  to  the  other.  The  object  of 
these,  my  guide  told  me,  was  to  show  the  path, 
when  this  whole  ravine  is  filled  up  with  deep  snow. 

I  could  not  help  thinking  how  horrible  it  must 
be  to  go  up  here  in  the  winter.  Our  path  sometimes 
came  so  near  to  the  torrent  as  to  suggest  uncom- 
fortable ideas.  In  one  place  it  swept  round  the 
point  of  a  rock  which  projected  into  the  foaming 
flood,  so  that  it  was  completely  under  water. 

I  stopped  a  little  before  I  came  to  this,  and  told  the 
guide  I  wanted  to  get  down.  He  lifted  me  from  my 
saddle,  and  then  stood  to  see  what  I  would  do  next. 
When  I  made  him  understand  that  I  meant  to  walk 
round  the  point,  he  very  earnestly  insisted  that  I 
should  get  back  to  the  saddle  again,  and  was  so 
positive  that  I  had  only  to  obey.  It  was  well  I  did 
so,  for  the  mule  went  round  safely  enough,  and 
could  afford  to  go  up  to  his  ankles  in  water  better 
than  I  could. 

As  we  neared  the  hospice  I  began  to  feel  the 
effects  of  the  rarefied  air  very  sensibly.     It  made  me 


122  THE  NEW  CENT l  /,'  V  REA  DER. 

dizzy,  bringing  on  a  most   acute  headache.     I  was 

glad  enough  when  the  old  building  came  in  view, 
though  the  road  lay  up  an  ascent  of  snow  almost 
perpendicular. 

At  the  foot  of  this  ascent  we  paused.  The  man 
stood  leaning  on  his  alpenstock,  looking  at  the  thing 
to  be  demonstrated.  There  were  two  paths,  both 
equally  steep  and  snowy.  At  last  he  gathered  up 
the  bridle,  and  started  up  the  most  direct'way. 

The  mule  did  not  like  it  at  all,  evidently,  and 
expressed  his  disgust  by  occasionally  stopping  short 
and  snuffing,  meaning  probably  to  intimate  that  he 
considered  the  whole  thing  a  humbug,  and  that  in 
his  opinion  we  should  all  slump  through  together, 
and  go  to  —  nobody  knows  where. 

When  we  were  almost  up  the  ascent,  he  did  slump, 
and  went  up  to  his  breast  in  snow  ;  whereat  the 
guide  pulled  me  out  of  the  saddle  with  one  hand, 
and  pulled  him  out  of  the  hole  with  the  other.  In 
a  minute  he  had  me  into  the  saddle  again,  and  after 
a  few  moments  more  we  were  up  the  ascent  and 
drawing  near  the  hospice  —  a  great,  square,  strong, 
stone  building,  standing  alone  among  rocks  and 
snowbanks. 

As  we  drove  up  nearer  I  saw  the  little  porch  in 
front  of  it  crowded  with  gentlemen  smoking  cigars, 
and  gazing  on  our  approach  just  as  from  the  porch 
of  a  fashionable  hotel.  This  was  quite  a  new  idea 
of  the  matter  to  me.  We  had  been  flattering  our- 
selves on  performing  an  incredible  adventure;  and 
lo,  and  behold,  all  the  world  were  there  waiting 
for  us. 

We  came  up  to  the  steps,  and  I  was  so  crippled 


THE  ST.  BERNARD  HOSPICE.  123 

with  fatigue  and  so  dizzy  and  sick  with  the  thin 
air,  that  I  hardly  knew  what  I  was  doing.  We 
entered  a  low-browed,  dark,  arched,  stone  passage, 
smelling  dismally  of  antiquity  and  dogs,  when  a 
brisk  voice  accosted  me  in  the  very  choicest  of 
French,  and  in  terms  of  welcome  as  gay  and  as 
courtly  as  if  we  were  entering  a  salon. 

Keys  clashed,  and  we  went  up  stone  staircases, 
our  entertainer  talking  volubly  all  the  way.  As  for 
me,  all  the  French  I  ever  knew  was  buried  under  an 

avalanche.     C had  to  make  answer  for  me,  that 

madame  was  very  unwell,  which  brought  forth 
another  stream  of  condolence  as  we  came  into  a 
supper  room,  lighted  by  a  wood  fire  at  one  end.  The 
long  table  was  stretched  out,  on  which  they  were 
placing  supper. 

The  supper  consisted  of  codfish,  stewed  apples, 
bread,  filberts,  and  raisins.  Immediately  after,  we 
were  shown  up  stone  staircases,  and  along  stone 
passages,  to  our  rooms,  of  which  the  most  inviting 
feature  was  two  high,  single  beds  covered  with  white 
spreads.  The  windows  of  the  rooms  were  so  narrow 
as  to  seem  only  like  loopholes. 

In  the  morning  I  looked  out  of  my  loophole  on 
the  tall,  grim  rocks,  and  a  small  lake  frozen  and 
covered  with  snow. 

"Is  this  lake  always  frozen?"  said  I  to  the  old 
serving  woman  who  had  come  to  bring  us  some  hot 
water. 

"Sometimes,"  says  she,  "about  the  latter  part 
of  August,  it  is  thawed." 

I  suppose  it  thaws  the  last  of  August,  and  freezes 
the  first  of  September. 


124  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

After  dressing  ourselves  we  crept  down-stairs  in 
hopes  of  finding  the  fire  which  we  left  the  night 
before  in  the  sitting-room.  The  fireplace  was  piled 
up  with  wood  and  kindlings  ready  to  be  lighted  in 
the  evening ;  but  being  made  to  understand  that  it 
was  a  very  sultry  day,  we  could  not,  of  course, 
suggest  such  an  extravagance  as  igniting  the  tempt- 
ing pile — an  extravagance,  because  every  stick  of 
wood  has  to  be  brought  on  the  backs  of  mules  from 
the  valleys  below,  at  a  great  expense  of  time  and 
money.  The  same  is  true  of  provisions  of  all  sorts, 
and  fodder  for  cattle. 

After  breakfast  I  went  to  the  front  porch  to  view 
the  prospect,  and  what  did  I  see  there?  Banks  of 
dirty,  half-melted  snow,  patches  of  bare  earth,  say 
about  fifty  feet  round,  and  then  the  whole  region 
shut  in  by  barren,  inaccessible  rocks,  which  cut  off 
all  view  in  every  direction. 

Along  by  the  frozen  lake  there  is  a  kind  of  cause- 
way path  made  for  a  promenade,  where  one  might 
walk  to  observe  the  beauties  of  the  season,  and  our 
cheery  entertainer  offered  to  show  it  to  us.  We 
pursued  this  walk  till  we  came  to  the  end  of  the 
lake,  and  there  he  showed  me  a  stone  pillar. 

" There,"  said  he,  " beyond  the  pillar  is  Italy." 

"Well,"  said  I,  "I  believe  I  shall  take  a  trip 
into  Italy."     So*,  as  he  turned  back  to  go  to  the 

house,  W and  I  continued  on.      We  went  some 

way  into  Italy,  down  the  ravine,  and  I  can  assure  you 
I  was  not  particularly  struck  with  the  country.  I 
observed  no  indications  of  that  superiority  in  the 
fine  arts,  or  that  genial  climate  and  soil,  of  which  I 
had  heard  so  much. 


THE  ST  BERNARD  HOSPICE.  125 

"What  a  perfectly  dismal,  comfortless  place!" 
said  I ;  but  climbing  up  the  rocks  to  rest  in  a  sunny 
place,  I  discovered  that  they  were  all  enameled  with 
the  most  brilliant  flowers. 

In  particular,  I  remarked  beds  of  velvet  moss, 
which  bore  a  pink  blossom.  Then  there  was  a  kind 
of  low,  starry  gentian,  of  a  bright  metallic  blue ;  I 
tried  to  paint  it  afterward,  but  neither  ultramarine 
nor  any  color  I  could  find  would  represent  its  bril- 
liancy ;  it  was  a  kind  of  living  brightness. 

I  spread  down  my  pocket-handkerchief,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  see  how  many  varieties  I  could  gather,  and 

in  a  very  small  circle  W and  I  collected  eighteen. 

Could  I  have  thought,  when  I  looked  from  my  win- 
dow over  this  bleak  region,  that  anything  so  lovely 
was  to  be  found  there?  It  was  quite  a  significant 
fact.  There  is  no  condition  of  life,  probably,  so 
dreary  that  a  lowly  and  patient  seeker  cannot  find 
its  flowers.  I  began  to  think  that  I  might  be  con- 
tented even  there.  We  went  back  to  the  house. 
There  were  services  in  the  chapel ;  I  could  hear  the 
organ  pealing,  and  the  singers  responding. 

Seven  great  dogs  were  sunning  themselves  on  the 
porch.  They  are  of  a  tawny-yellow  color,  short- 
haired,  broad-chested,  and  strong-limbed.  As  to 
size,  I  have  seen  much  larger  Newfoundland  dogs 
in  Boston. 

For  my  part,  I  was  a  little  uneasy  among  them, 
as  they  went  frisking  around  me,  flouncing  and 
rolling  over  each  other  on  the  stone  floor,  and 
making,  every  now  and  then,  the .  most  hideous 
noises.  As  I  saw  them  biting  each  other  in  their 
clumsy    frolics,    I    began    to    be    afraid    lest    they 


1 26  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READ  Eli. 

should  take  it  into  their  heads  to  treat  me  like 
one  of  the  family,  and  so  stood  ready  to  run. 

Their  principal  use  is  to  find  paths  in  the  deep 
snow  when  the  fathers  go  out  to  look  for  travelers, 
as  they  always  do  in  stormy  weather.  They  are  not 
long-lived ;  neither  man  nor  animal  can  stand  the 
severe  temperature  and  the  thin  air  for  a  long  time. 

Many  of  the  dogs  die  from  diseases  of  the  lungs 
and  rheumatism,  besides  those  killed  by  accidents, 
such  as  the  falling  of  avalanches,  etc.  One  of  the 
monks  told  us  that,  when  they  went  out  after  the 
dogs  in  the  winter  storms,  all  they  could,  see  of 
them  was  their  tails  moving  along  through  the 
snow.  The  monks  themselves  can  stand  the  cli- 
mate but  a  short  time.  They  are  obliged  to  go 
down  and  live  in  the  valleys  below,  while  others 
take  their  places. 

con  do'lence,  expression  of  sympathy.  e  nani'eled,  decorated,  as  with  enamel. 

de  file',  a  narrow  passage  in  a  mountain  per'  pen  die'  u  lar,  exactly  upright  or 

region.  vertical. 

hos'pice,a  monastery  occupied  by  monks  rar'e  fled,  thin;  less  dense. 

and  used   as   an    inn  or  refuge  for  vol'  u  bly,  with  rapid  and  ready  speech. 

travelers. 


Where  may  the  wearied  eye  repose 

When  gazing  on  the  Great ; 
Where  neither  guilty  glory  glows, 

Nor  despicable  state? 
Yes  —  one  —  the  first  —  the  last  —  the  best  — 
The  Cincinnatus  of  the  West, 

Whom  envy  dared  not  hate, 
Bequeathed  the  name  of  Washington, 
To  make  man  blush  there  was  but  one ! 

—From  an  "Ode  to  Napoleon,"  by  Lord  Byron. 


THE  SHANDON  BELLS.  127 

THE  SHANDON  BELLS. 

FRANCIS  MAHONY  (FATHER  PROUT). 

With  deep  affection 
And  recollection 
I  often  think  of 

Those  Shandon  bells, 
Whose  sonnd  so  wild  would, 
In  days  of  childhood, 
Fling  round  my  cradle 

Their  magic  spells. 
On  this  I  ponder 
Where'er  I  wander, 
And  thus  grow  fonder, 

Sweet  Cork  of  thee ; 
With  thy  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 

I've  heard  bells  chiming 
Full  many  a  clime  in, 
Tolling  sublime  in 

Cathedral  shrine, 
While  at  a  glib  rate 
Brass  tongues  would  vibrate  — 
But  all  their  music 

Spoke  naught. like  thine; 
For  memory  dwelling 
On  each  proud  swelling 
Of  the  belfry  knelling 

Its  bold  notes  free, 


128         THE  NE  W  CENTUR  Y  READER. 

Made  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 
Of  the  river  Lee! 


I've  heard  bells  tolling 
Old  " Adrian's  Mole"  in, 
Their  thunder  rolling 

From  the  Vatican, 
And  cymbals  glorious 
Swinging  uproarious 
In  the  gorgeous  turrets 

Of  Notre  Dame ; 
But  thy  sounds  were  sweeter 
Than  the  dome  of  Peter 
Flings  o'er  the  Tiber, 

Pealing  solemnly ;  — 
O!   the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 

There's  a  bell  in  Moscow, 
While  on  tower  and  kiosk  o ! 
In  Saint  Sophia 

The  Turkman  gets, 
And  loud  in  air 
Calls  men  to  prayer 
From  the  tapering  summits 

Of  tall  minarets. 
Such  empty  phantom 
I  freely  grant  them; 


MRS.  CAUDLE'S  UMBRELLA  LECTURE.  129 

But  there's  an  anthem 

More  dear  to  me, — 
'Tis  the  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 


MRS.  CAUDLE'S  UMBRELLA  LECTURE. 

DOUGLAS   WILLIAM  JEEROLD. 

{From  "Mrs.  Caudle's  Curtain  Lectures.") 

"  That's  the  third  umbrella  gone  since  Christmas. 
What  were  you  to  do?  Why,  let  him  go  home  in 
the  rain,  to  be  sure.  I'm  very  certain  there  was 
nothing  about  him  that  could  spoil.  Take  cold, 
indeed !  He  doesn't  look  like  one  of  the  sort  to 
take  cold.  Besides,  he'd  have  better  taken  cold 
than  take  our  only  umbrella.  Do  you  hear  the 
rain,  Mr.  Caudle?  I  say,  do  you  hear  the  rain? 
And  as  I'm  alive,  if  it  isn't  St.  Swithin's  Day!  Do 
you  hear  it  against  the  windows?  Nonsense;  you 
don't  impose  upon  me.  You  can't  be  asleep  with 
such  a  shower  as  that !  Do  you  hear  it,  I  say  ? 
Oh,  you  do  hear  it!  Well  that's  a  pretty  flood,  I 
think,  to  last  for  six  weeks ;  and  no  stirring  all  the 
time  out  of  the  house.  Pooh !  don't  think  me  a 
fool,  Mr.  Caudle.  Don't  insult  me.  He  return  the 
umbrella!  Anybody  would  think  you  were  born 
yesterday.  As  if  anybody  ever  did  return  an  um- 
brella !  There  —  do  you  hear  it  ?  Worse  and  worse ! 
Cats  and  dogs,  and  for  six  weeks  —  always  six  weeks. 
And  no  umbrella. 


130  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

"I  should  like  to  know  how  the  children  are  to 
go  to  school  to-morrow?  They  shan't  go  through 
such  weather,  I'm  determined.  No :  they  shall  stop 
at  home  and  never  learn  anything  —  the  blessed  crea- 
tures ! —  sooner  than  go  and  get  wet.  And  when 
they  grow  up,  I  wonder  who  they'll  have  to  thank 
for  knowing  nothing  —  who,  indeed,  but  their  father  ? 

"But  I  know  why  you  lent  the  umbrella.  Oh, 
yes ;  I  know  very  well.  I  was  going  out  to  tea  at  dear 
mother's  to-morrow — you  knew  that;  and  you  did 
it  on  purpose.  Don't  tell  me ;  you  hate  me  to  go 
there,  and  take  every  mean  advantage  to  hinder 
me.  But  don't  you  think  it,  Mr.  Caudle.  ISTo,  sir; 
if  it  comes  down  in  bucketsful,  I'll  go  all  the  more. 

"No:  and  I  won't  have  a  cab.  Where  do  you 
think  the  money's  to  come  from?  You've  got  nice 
high  notions  at  that  club  of  yours.  A  cab,  indeed ! 
Cost  me  sixteen-pence  at  least — sixteen-pence !  two- 
and-eight-pence,  for  there's  back  again.  Cabs,  in- 
deed! I  should  like  to  know  who's  to  pay  for  'em ; 
/  can't  pay  for  'em,  and  I'm  sure  you  can't,  if  you 
go  on  as  you  do ;  throwing  away  your  property, 
and  beggaring  your  children — buying  umbrellas! 

"Do  you  hear  the  rain,  Mr.  Caudle?  I  say,  do 
you  hear  it?  But  I  don't  care  —  I'll  go  to  mother's 
to-morrow:  I  will;  and  what's  more,  I'll  walk  every 
step  of  the  way,— and  you  know  that  will  give  me 
my  death.  Don't  call  me  a  foolish  woman,  it's  you 
that's  the  foolish  man.  You  know  I  can't  wear 
clogs ;  and  with  no  umbrella,  the  wet's  sure  to  give 
me  a  cold  —  it  always  does.  But  what  do  you  care 
for  that?  Nothing  at  all.  I  may  be  laid  up  for 
what  you  care,  as  I  dare  say  I  shall  —  and  a  pretty 


MRS  CAUDLE'S  UMBRELLA  LECTURE.  V61 

doctor's  bill  there'll  be.  I  hope  there  will!  It  will 
teach  you  to  lend  your  umbrellas  again.  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  I  caught  my  death;  yes:  and  that's  what 
you  lent  the  umbrella  for.     Of  course ! 

"Nice  clothes  I  shall  get  too,  traipsing  through 
weather  like  this.  My  gown  and  bonnet  will  be 
spoiled  quite.  Neednt  I  toear  'em,  then?  Indeed, 
Mr.  Caudle,  I  shall  wear  'em.  No,  sir,  I'm  not 
going  out  a  dowdy  to  please  you  or  anybody  else. 
Gracious  knows!  it  isn't  often  that  I  step  over  the 
threshold ;  indeed,  I  might  as  well  be  a  slave 
at  once, — better,  I  should  say.  But  when  I  do 
go  out,  Mr.  Caudle,  I  choose  to  go  like  a  lady. 
Oh!  that  rain  —  if  it  isn't  enough  to  break  in  the 
windows. 

"Ugh!  I  do  look  forward  with  dread  for  to- 
morrow! How  I  am  to  go  to  mother's  I'm  sure  I 
can't  tell.  But  if  I  die,  I'll  do  it.  No,  sir ;  I  won't 
borrow  an  umbrella.  No;  and  you  shan't  buy  one. 
Now,  Mr.  Caudle,  only  listen  to  this:  if  you  bring 
home  another  umbrella,  I'll  throw  it  in  the  street. 
I'll  have  my  own  umbrella,  or  none  at  all.  Ha!  and 
it  was  only  last  week  I  had  a  new  nozzle  put  to  that 
umbrella.  I'm  sure,  if  I'd  have  known  as  much  as 
I  do  now,  it  might  have  gone  without  one  for  me. 
Paying  for  new  nozzles,  for  other  people  to  laugh 
at  you. 

"And  I  should  like  to  know  how  I'm  to  go  to 
mother's  without  the  umbrella?  Oh,  don't  tell  me 
that  I  said  I  would  go  —  that's  nothing  to  do  with 
it ;  nothing  at  all.  She'll  think  I'm  neglecting  her, 
and  the  little  money  we  were  to  have,  we  shan't 
have  at  all — because  we've  no  umbrella. 


132  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

"The  children,  too!  dear  things!  they'll  be  sop- 
ping wet ;  for  they  shan't  stop  at  home  —  they  shan't 
lose  their  learning ;  it's  all  their  father  will  leave 
'em,  I'm  sure.  But  they  sliall  go  to  school.  Don't 
tell  me  I  said  they  shouldn't :  you  are  so  aggra- 
vating, Caudle ;  you'd  spoil  the  temper  of  an  angel. 
They  shall  go  to  school ;  mark  that.  And  if  they 
get  their  deaths  of  cold,  it's  not  my  fault  —  I  didn't 
lend  the  umbrella." 


THE  BELLS. 

EDGAK  ALLAN   POE. 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells  — 
Silver  bells ! 
What    a    world    of    merriment    their    melody   fore- 
tells ! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night ! 
While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens,  seem  to  twinkle 

With  a  crystalline  delight ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically  swells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells  — 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 

Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells, 
Golden  bells! 


THE  BELLS.  133 

What   a  world   of    happiness    their   harmony   fore- 
tells ! 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight! 
From  the  molten-golden  notes, 

And  all  in  tune, 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle  dove  that  listens,  while  she  gloats 
On  the  moon ! 
Oh,  from  out  the  sounding  cells, 
What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells ! 
How  it  swells ! 
How  it  dwells 
On  the  Future !    how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells  — 
To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells ! 

Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells  — 
Brazen  bells ! 
What  a  tale  of  terror  now,  their  turbulency  tells ! 
In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
•     How  they  scream  out  their  affright ! 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 
Out  of  tune, 
In  a  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the  lire, 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and  frantic  fire. 
Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 
With  a  desperate  desire, 


1 34  THE  WE  W  CENTUR  Y  READER. 

And  a  resolute  endeavor, 
Wow — now  to  sit  or  never, 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 
Oh,  the  bells,  bells,  bells ! 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 
Of  Despair ! 
How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar ! 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air! 
Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows, 
By  the  twanging, 
And  the  clanging, 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows ; 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 
In  the  jangling, 
And  the  wrangling, 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, 
By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of  the 
bells  — 
Of  the -bells — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells  — 
In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the  bells ! 


Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells  — 
Iron  bells ! 
What  a  world  of    solemn    thought    their    monody 
compels ! 
In  the  silence  of  the  night, 
How  we  shiver  with  affright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone! 
For  every  sound  that  floats 


THE  BELLS.  135 

From  the  rust  within  their  throats 

Is  a  groan. 
And  the  people— ah,  the  people  — 
They  that  dwell  np  in  the  steeple, 
All  alone, 
And  who  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 

In  that  muffled  monotone, 
Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone  — 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman  — 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human  — 

They  are  Gfhouls : 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls ; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 
Rolls 
.  A  psean  from  the  bells ! 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 

With  the  psean  of  the  bells ! 
And  he  dances,  and  he  yells ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  psean  of  the  bells  — 
Of  the  bells : 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells  — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells  — 
To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 
In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells  — 


136  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells  — 
T©  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells  — 
Bells,  bells,  bells  — 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells ! 

crys'  tal  line,  like  crystals;  clear;  trans-  pae'  an,  a  song  of  praise  and  triumph. 

parent.  pal'  pi  ta'  ting,  quivering;  throbbing. 

eu'  pho  ny,  pleasing  or  sweet  sounds.  Itu'  nic,  pertaining  to  the  Norsemen. 

ghoul  (gdbl),  an  imaginary  demon  sup-  tin'  tin  nab'  u  la'  tion,  a  tinkling 

posed  to  devour  men  and  animals.  sound. 

mon'  o  dy,  mournful  poem  or  song  for  tur'  bu  len  cy,  commotion;  agitation. 

one  voice. 


EXTRACT  FROM  "TURN  ON  THE  LIGHT." 

FRANCES    E.    WILLARD. 

A  while  ago  I  visited  the  Atlantic  Cable  Com- 
pany's office  at  Sydney,  Cape  Breton  Island,  where 
many  thousands  of  telegraphic  messages  pass  over 
the  wires  and  under  the  sea  each  day.  A  telegraph 
man  of  thirty  years'  experience  showed  us  about 
the  place. 

"That's  Berlin,"  he  said,  listening  to  one  of  the 
operators;  "that's  London  ;  that's  New  York.  Here 
is  Wheatstone's  automatic  transmitter ;  there  are 
the  Western  Union  Standard  quadruples  (Edison's); 
we  send  four  messages  now  upon  one  wire  at  the 
same  time,  and  could  send  almost  any  number,  the 
difficulty  being  in  the  adaptation  of  mechanical 
contrivances  to  different  systems  of  notation.  Here 
is  the  automatic  repeater ;  here  the  new  method  of 
insulation ;  here  are  eleven  hundred  cells,  constitut- 
ing our  battery ;  here  are  the  ends  of  the  cables 
that  start  from  Heart's  Content." 

Thus  he  went  on,  making  the  modern  miracle  as 


EXTRACT  FROM  "  TURN  ON  THE  LIGHT."  137 

plain  as  language  and  illustration  could  do  to  the 
uninitiated. 

"In  one  minute  we  can  send  a  message  to  London, 
and  receive  an  answer,"  he  said;  "we  could  do  it  in 
less  time  ;  indeed,  the  electric  part  is  done  in  no  time, 
but  you  see,  in  New  York,  a  man's  brain-battery 
must  grasp,  and  his  hand  must  transmit  the  mes- 
sage ;  then  here  in  Sydney  another  man  must  repeat 
it;  then  at  Heart's  Content,  Newfoundland,  a  third 
man  takes  and  gives  it ;  then  at  Valencia  Bay,  Ire- 
land, and  then  in  London.  But  for  this  repetition, 
the  question  and  answer  would  be  exchanged  across 
five  thousand  miles  in,  practically,  no  time  at  all  — 
far  more  rapidly  than  human  lips  could  utter  it." 

We  said,  looking  around  upon  the  army  of  young 
men  who  were  keeping  up  this  fusillade  by  which 
distance  is  demolished:  "Do  you  employ  moderate 
drinkers?" 

Swift  and  staccato  came  the  answer:  "Not  at 
all;  we  must  have  the  brain  at  its  clearest,  the 
hand  at  its  best.  We  can't  afford  to  have  young 
men  that  drink." 

He  went  on  to  say  that  he  believed  the  temper- 
ance workers  could  hardly  overestimate  the  value  to 
the  total  abstinence  cause  of  the  multiplying  modern 
inventions  that  put  such  a  splendid  premium  upon 
teetotalism.  And  he  was  right;  the  sure,  slow  lift 
of  civilization's  tidal  wave  is  with  us.  Ten  thousand 
forces  are  perpetually  at  work  to  move  forward  the 
white  car  of  temperance  reform.  We  who  give  our 
whole  lives  to  the  movement  are  hardly  more  than 
the  weather-vane  that  shows  which  way  the  wind  is 
blowing. 

10 


138  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

Let  us,  then,  rejoice  and  take  courage;  every 
witty  invention,  every  intricate  machine,  every  swift- 
moving  engine  hastens  the  dominance  of  Him  upon 
whose  shoulder  shall  yet  be  a  government  uinto 
which  shall  enter  nothing  that  defileth." 

al>'  sti  nence,  abstaining  from  drink.  in'  su  la'  t  ion,  to  place  an  object  in  a 

au'  to  mat'  ic,  self-acting.  detached    position  so  as   to  prevent 

dom'  i  nance,  ascendency.  electricity   being    transferred    to   or 

fu'sil  lade',  a  simultaneous  discharge  of  from  it  by  conduction. 

firearms;  hence,  a  number  of  things  trans  mit'  ter,  a  telegraph  instrument 

sent  out  together.  for  sending  messages. 

quad'  ru  pie,  fourfold.  un'  in  i'  ti  a'  ted    ( ish' ),    those    unac- 
quainted with. 


THE  PILLAR  OF  CLOUD. 

("Lead,  Kindly  Light.") 

CARDINAL  NEWMAN. 

Lead,  kindly  Light,  amid  the  encircling  gloom, 

Lead  Thou  me  on ! 
The  night  is  dark,  and  I  am  far  from  home, — 

Lead  Thou  me  on  ! 
Keep  Thou  my  feet;   I  do  not  ask  to  see 
The  distant  scene, — one  step  enough  for  me. 

I  was  not  ever  thus,  nor  prayed  that  Thou 

Shouldst  lead  me  on : 
I  loved  to  choose  and  see  my  path,  but  now 

Lead  Thou  me  on ! 
I  loved  the  garish  day,  and,  spite  of  fears, 
Pride  ruled  my  will :  remember  not  past  years. 

So  long  Thy  power  hath  blest  me,  sure  it  still 

Will  lead  me  on ; 
O'er  moor  and  fen,  o'er  crag  and  torrent,  till 

The  night  is  gone ; 
And  with  the  morn  those  angel  faces  smile 
Which  I  have  loved  long  since,  and  lost  awhile. 


TWO  VIEWS  OF  NATURE.  139 

TWO  VIEWS  OF  NATURE. 

CHATEAUBRIAND . 

(From  the  "Genius  of  Christianity.") 

We  shall  place  before  the  reader  two  views  of 
Nature ;  one  an  ocean  scene,  the  other  a  land  pic- 
ture ;  one  sketched  in  the  middle  of  the  Atlantic, 
the  other  in  the  forests  of  the  New  World. 

The  vessel  in  which  we  embarked  for  America 
having  passed  the  bearing  of  any  land,  space  was 
soon  enclosed  only  by  the  two-fold  azure  of  the  sea 
and  of  the  sky.  The  color  of  the  waters  resembled 
that  of  liquid  glass.  A  great  swell  was  visible  from 
the  west,  though  the  wind  blew  from  the  east, 
while  immense  undulations  extended  from  the  north 
to  the  south,  opening  in  their  valleys  long  vistas 
through  the  deserts  of  the  deep. 

The  fleeting  scenes  changed  with  every  minute. 
Sometimes  a  multitude  of  verdant  hillocks  appeared 
to  us  like  a  series  of  graves  in  some  vast  cemetery. 
Sometimes  the  curling  summits  of  the  waves  resem- 
bled white  flocks  scattered  over  a  heath.  Now 
space  seemed  circumscribed  for  want  of  an  object 
of  comparison ;  but  if  a  billow  reared  its  mountain 
crest,  if  a  wave  curved  like  a  distant  shore,  or  a 
squadron  of  sea-dogs  moved  along  the  horizon,  the 
vastness  of  space  again  suddenly  opened  before  us. 

We  were  most  powerfully  impressed  with  an  idea 
of  magnitude,  when  a  light  fog,  creeping  along  the 
surface  of  the  deep,  seemed  to  increase  immensity 
itself.  Oh  !  how  sublime,  how  awful,  at  such  times, 
is  the  aspect  of  the  ocean ! 

We  often  rose  at  midnight  and  sat  down  upon 


140  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

the  deck.  No  noise  was  heard,  save  the  dashing 
of  the  prow  through  the  billows,  while  sparks  of 
fire  ran  with  a  white  foam  along  the  sides  of  the 
vessel. 

God  of  Christians !  it  is  on  the  waters  of  the 
abyss  and  on  the  vast  expanse  of  the  heavens  that 
thou  hast  particularly  engraven  the  characters  of 
thy  omnipotence ! 

Millions  of  stars  sparkling  in  the  azure  of  the 
celestial  dome  —  the  moon  in  the  midst  of  the  firma- 
ment—  a  sea  unbounded  by  any  shore  —  infinitude 
in  the  skies  and  on  the  waves  —  proclaim  with  most- 
impressive  effect  the  power  of  thy.  arm  I      *     *     * 

Let  us  now  pass  to  the  terrestrial  scene. 

I  had  wandered  one  evening  in  the  woods,  at 
some  distance  from  the  cataract ,  of  Niagara,  when 
soon  the  last  glimmerings  of  daylight  disappeared, 
and  I  enjoyed,  in  all  its  loneliness,  the  beauteous 
prospect  of  night  amid  the  deserts  of  the  New 
World. 

An  hour  after  sunset,  the  moon  appeared  above 
the  trees  in  the  opposite  part  of  the  heavens.  A 
balmy  breeze,  which  the  queen  of  night  had 
brought  with  her  from  the  east,  seemed  to  precede 
her  in  the  forests,  like  her  perfumed  breath.  The 
lonely  luminary  slowly  ascended  in  the  firmament, 
now  peacefully  pursuing  her  azure  course,  and  now 
reposing  on  groups  of  clouds  which  resembled  the 
summits  of  lofty,  snow-covered  mountains. 

These  clouds,  by  the  contraction  and  expansion 
of  their  vapory  forms,  rolled  themselves  into  trans- 
parent zones  of  white  satin,  scattering  in  airy  masses 


TWO  VIEWS  OF  NATURE.  141 

of  foam,  or  forming  in  the  heavens  brilliant  beds  of 
down  so  lovely  to  the  eye  that  you  would  have 
imagined  you  felt  their  softness  and  elasticity. 

The  scenery  on  the  earth  was  not  less  enchant- 
ing :  the  soft  beams  of  the  moon  darted  through 
the  intervals  between  the  trees,  and  threw  streams 
of  light  into  the  midst  of  the  most  profound  dark- 
ness. The  river  that  glided  at  my  feet  was  now 
lost  in  the  wood,  and  now  reappeared,  glistening 
with  the  constellations  of  the  night,  which  were 
reflected  on  its  bosom.  In  a  vast  plain  beyond  this 
stream,  the  radiance  of  the  moon  reposed  quietly 
on  the  verdure.  Birch  trees,  scattered  here  and 
there  in  the  savanna,  formed  shadowy  islands  which 
floated  on  a  motionless  sea  of  light.  Near  me,  all 
was  silence  and  repose,  save  the  fall  of  some  leaf, 
the  transient  rustling  of  a  sudden  breath  of  wind, 
or  the  hooting  of  an  owl ;  but  at  a  distance  was 
heard,  at  intervals,  the  solemn  roar  of  the  Falls  of 
Niagara,  which,  in  the  stillness  of  the  night,  was 
prolonged  from  desert  to  desert,  and  died  away 
among  the  solitary  forests. 

In  those  wild  regions  the  mind  loves  to  penetrate 
into  an  ocean  of  forests,  to  hover  round  the  abysses 
of  cataracts,  to  meditate  on  the  banks  of  lakes  and 
rivers,  and,  as  it  were,  to  And  itself  alone  with  God. 


There  is  no  work  of  genius  which  has  not  been 
the  delight  of  mankind,  no  word  of  genius  to  which 
the  human  heart  and  soul  have  not  sooner  or  later 
responded.  _  Lowell. 


142  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

THE  KING. 

JAMES   WHITCOMB   EILEY. 

They  rode  right  out  of  the  morning  sun-— 

A  glimmering,  glittering  cavalcade 
Of  knights  and  ladies,  and  every  one 

In  princely  sheen  arrayed ; 
And  the  king  of  them  all,  O  he  rode  ahead, 
With  a  helmet  of  gold,  and  a  .plume  of  red 
That  spurted  about  in  the  breeze  and  bled 
In  the  bloom  of  the  everglade. 

And  they  rode  high  over  the  dewy  lawn, 
With  brave,  glad  banners  of  every  hue 
That  rolled  in  ripples,  as  they  rode  on 

In  splendor,  two  and  two  ; 
And  the  tinkling  links  of  the  golden  reins 
Of  the  steeds  they  rode  rang  such  refrains 
As  the  castanets  in  a  dream  of  Spain's 

Intensest  gold  and  blue. 

And   they    rode    and   rode ;    and    the    steeds    they 
neighed 
And  pranced,  and  the  sun  on  their  glossy  hides 
Flickered  and  lightened  and  glanced  and  played 

Like  the  moon  on  rippling  tides ; 
And  their  manes  were  silken,  and  thick  and  strong, 
And  their  tails  were  flossy,  and  fetlock-long, 
And  jostled  in  time  to  the  teeming  throng, 
And  the  knightly  song  besides. 

Clank  of  scabbard  and  jingle  of  spur, 

And  the  fluttering  sash  of  the  queen  went  wild 


BRUTUS  AND  CASSIUS.  143 

In  the  wind,  and  the  proud  king  glanced  at  her 

As  one  at  a  wilful  child, — 
And  as  knight  and  lady  away  they  flew, 
And  the  banners  flapped,  and  the  falcon,  too, 
And  the  lances  flashed  and  the  bugle  blew, 

He  kissed  his  hand  and  smiled  — 

And  then,  like  a  slanting  sunlit  shower, 
The  pageant  glittered  across  the  plain, 
And  the  turf  spun  back,  and  the  wildweed  flower 

Was  only  a  crimson  stain. 
And  a  dreamer's  eyes  they  are  downward  cast, 
As  he  blends  these  words  with  the  wailing  blast: 
"It  is  the  King  of  the  Year  rides  past !  " 

And  Autumn  is  here  again. 

cas'  ta  nets,  two  small  concave  shells  ev'  er  glade,  a   low,   marshy  region, 

fastened   to  the   thumb   and   beaten  more  or  less  covered  with  high  grass, 

together  with  the  middle  finger.  fal'  con,  a  bird  of  prey  trained  to  the 

cav'  al  cade',  a  procession  on   horse-  pursuit  of  other  birds, 

back.  sheen,  splendor;  brightness. 


BRUTUS  AND  CASSIUS. 

WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE. 

{From  "Julius  Ccesar.") 

(Act  IV,  Scene  III.  Within  the  tent  of  Brutus. 
Lucilius*  and  Titinius  at  some  distance  from  it. 
Enter  Brutus  and  Cassius.) 

Cassius.     That  you  have  wrong' d  me  doth  appear 
in  this: 
You  have  condemn' d  and  noted  Lucius  Pella 
For  taking  bribes  here  of  the  Sardians ; 
Wherein  my  letter,  praying  on  his  side, 
Because  I  knew  the  man,  was  slighted  off. 

*  See  M  Julius  Caesar,"  edited  by  William  J.  Rolfe,  page  169,  note  50. 


WILLIAM    SHAKSPERE. 


BRUTUS  AND  CASSIUS.  145 

Brutus.     You  wrong' d  yourself  to  write  in  such 
a  case. 

Cas.     In  such  a  time  as  this  it  is  not  meet 
That  every  nice  offence  should  bear  his  comment. 

Bru.     Let  me  tell  you,  Cassius,  you  yourself 
Are  much  condemn' d  to  have  an  itching  palm, 
To  sell  and  mart  your  offices  for  gold 
To  undeservers. 

Cas.  I  an  itching  palm  ? 

You  know  that  you  are  Brutus  that  speaks  this, 
Or,  by  the  gods,  this  speech  were  else  your  last. 

Bru.     The  name  of  Cassius  honors  this  corrup- 
tion, 
And  chastisement  doth  therefore  hide  his  head. 

Cas.     Chastisement ! 

Bru.     Remember  March,  the  ides  of  March  remem- 
ber! 
Did  not  great  Julius  bleed  for  justice  sake? 
What  villain  touch' d  his  body,  that  did  stab, 
And  not  for  justice  ?    What !  shall  one  of  us, 
That  struck  the  foremost  man  of  all  this  world 
But  for  supporting  robbers, —  shall  we  now 
Contaminate  our  lingers  with  base  bribes, 
And  sell  the  mighty  space  of  our  large  honors 
For  so  much  trash  as  may  be  grasped  thus? 
I  had  rather  be  a  dog,  and  bay  the  moon, 
Than  such  a  Roman. 

Cas.  Brutus,  bay  not  me ; 

I'll  not  endure  it :  you  forget  yourself, 
To  hedge  me  in.     I  am  a  soldier,  I, 
Older  in  practice,  abler  than  yourself 
To  make  conditions. 

Bru.  Go  to ;  you  are  not,  Cassius. 


146  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

* 

Cas.     I  am. 

Bru.     I  say  you  are  not. 

Cas.     Urge  me  no  more,  I  shall  forget  myself; 
Have  mind  upon  your  health,  tempt  me  no  further. 

Bru.    Away,  slight  man  ! 

Cas.     Is't  possible? 

Bru.  Hear  me,  for  I  will  speak. 

Must  I  give  way  and  room  to  your  rash  choler? 
Shall  I  be  frighted  when  a  madman  stares? 

Cas.     O  ye   gods,   ye    gods !   must  I   endure   all 
this? 

Bru.     All  this  ?   Ay,  more.    Fret  till  your  proud 
heart  break ; 
Go  show  your  slaves  how  choleric  you  are, 
And  make  your  bondmen  tremble.     Must  I  budge? 
Must  I  observe  you?    Must  I  stand  and  crouch 
Under  your  testy  humor?    By  the  gods, 
You  shall  digest  the  venom  of  your  spleen, 
Though  it  do  split  you  ;  for  from  this  day  forth, 
I'll  use  you  for  my  mirth,  yea,  for  my  laughter, 
When  you  are  waspish. 

Cas.  Is  it  come  to  this? 

Bru.     You  say  you  are  a  better  soldier : 
Let  it  appear  so ;  make  your  vaunting  true, 
And  it  shall  please  me  well.     For  mine  own  part, 
I  shall  be  glad  to  learn  of  noble  men. 

Cas.     You  wrong  me  every  way,  you  wrong  me, 
Brutus ; 
I  said  an  elder  soldier,  not  a  better: 
Did  I  say  better? 

Bru.  If  you  did,  I  care  not. 

Cas.     When  Caesar  liv'd  he  durst  not  thus  have 
mov'd  me. 


BR  UTUS  AND  CA8SIUS.  147 

Bru.     Peace,    peace !    you    durst    not    so    have 
tempted  him. 

Cas.     I  durst  not? 

Bru.     No. 

Cas.     What  ?   durst  not  tempt  him  ? 

Bru.  For  your  life  you  durst  not. 

Cas.     Do  not  presume  too  much  upon  my  love ; 
I  may  do  that  I  should  be  sorry  for. 

Bru.    You  have  done  that  you  should  be  sorry  for. 
There  is  no  terror,  Cassius,  in  your  threats ; 
For  I  am  arm'd  so  strong  in  honesty 
That  they  pass  by  me  as  the  idle  wind 
Which  I  respect  not.      I  did  send  to  you 
For  certain  sums  of  gold,   which  you  denied  me; — 
For  I  can  raise  no  money  by  vile  means : 
By  heaven,  I  had  rather  coin  my  heart, 
And  drop  my  blood  for  drachmas,  than  to  wring 
From  the  hard  hand  of  peasants  their  vile  trash 
By  any  indirection. — I  did  send 
To  you  for  gold  to  pay  my  legions, 
Which  you  denied  me.     Was  that  done  like  Cassius  ? 
Should  I  have.answer'd  Caius  Cassius  so? 
When  Marcus  Brutus  grows  so  covetous, 
To  lock  such  rascal  counters  from  his  friends, 
Be  ready,  gods,  with  all  your  thunderbolts, 
Dash  him  to  pieces ! 

Cas.  I  denied  you  not. 

Bru.     You  did. 

Cas.  I  did  not;  he  was  but  a  fool 

That  brought  my  answer  back. — Brutus  hath  riv'd 

my  heart ; 
A  friend  should  bear  a  friend's  infirmities, 
But  Brutus  makes  mine  greater  than  they  are. 


148  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

Bru.     I  do  not,  till  you  practice  them  on  me. 

Cas.     You  love  me  not. 

Bru.  I  do  not  like  your  faults. 

Cas.     A  friendly  eye  could  never  see  such  faults. 

Bru.     A  flatterer's   would  not,   though  they  do 
appear 
As  huge  as  high  Olympus. 

Cas.     Come,  Antony,  and  young  Octavius,  come, 
Revenge  yourselves  alone  on  Cassius ! 
For  Cassius  is  aweary  of  the  world ; 
Hated  by  one  he  loves,  brav'd  by  his  brother, 
Check' d  like  a  bondman ;  all  his  faults  observ'd, 
Set  in  a  note-book,  learn' d  and  conn'd  by  rote, 
To  cast  into  my  teeth.      O,  I  could  weep 
My  spirit  from  mine  eyes ! — There  is  my  dagger, 
And  here  my  naked  breast ;  within,  a  heart 
Dearer  than  Plutus'  mine,  richer  than  gold: 
If  that  thou  beest  a  Roman,  take  it  forth. 
I,  that  denied  thee  gold,  will  give  my  heart: 
Strike,  as  thou  didst  at  Csesar ;  for  I  know, 
When  thou  didst  hate  him  worst,  thou  lov'dst  him 

better 
Than  ever  thou  lov'dst  Cassius. 

Bru.  Sheathe  your  dagger: 

Be  angry  when  you  will,  it  shall  have  scope; 
Do  what  you  will,  dishonor  shall  be  humor. 
O  Cassius,  you  are  yoked  with  a  lamb, 
That  carries  anger  as  the  flint  bears  fire, 
Who,  much  enforced,  shows  a  hasty  spark 
And  straight  is  cold  again. 

Cas.  Hath  Cassius  liv'd 

To  be  but  mirth  and  laughter  to  his  Brutus, 
When  grief  and  blood  ill-temper' d  vexeth  him? 


HAMLET.  149 

Bru.    When  I  spoke  that  I  was  ill-temper' d  too. 
Cas.     Do  you  confess  so  much?     Give  me  your 

hand. 
Bru.     And  my  heart  too. 


HAMLET. 

WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE. 

{From  "■Hamlet.") 

(Act  I,  Scene  II.  Hamlet  alone  in  a  room  of  the 
castle.  Enter  Horatio,  Marcellus,  and  Ber- 
nardo.) 

Horatio.      Hail  to  your  lordship ! 

Ham.  I  am  glad  to  see  you  well : 

Horatio, — or  I  do  forget  myself. 

Hor.   The  same  my  lord,  and  your  poor  servant  ever. 

Ham.     Sir,  my  good  friend  ;  I'll  change  that  name 
with  you : 
And  what  make  you  from  Wittenberg,  Horatio?  — 
Marcellus  ? 

Mar.     My  good  lord  — 

Ham.     I  am  very  glad  to  see  you. —    [To  Ber,] 
Good  even,  sir. — 
But  what,  in  faith,  make  you  from  Wittenberg? 

Hor.     A  truant  disposition,  good  my  lord. 

Ham.     I  would  not  hear  your  enemy  say  so, 
Nor  shall  you  do  mine  ear  that  violence, 
To  make  it  truster  of  your  own  report 
Against  yourself ;  I  know  you  are  no  truant. 
But  what  is  your  affair  in  Elsinore? 
We'll  teach  you  to  drink  deep  ere  you  depart. 

Hor.     My  lord,  I  came  to  see  your  father's  funeral. 


150  TEE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

Ham.     I  pray  thee,  do  not  mock  me,  fellow-stu- 
dent ; 
I  think  it  was  to  see  my  mother's  wedding. 

Hor.     Indeed,  my  lord,  it  follow' d  hard  upon. 

Ham.    Thrift,  thrift,  Horatio !  the  funeral  bak'd- 
meats 
Did  coldly  furnish  forth  the  marriage  tables. 
Would  I  had  met  my  dearest  foe  in  heaven 
Or  ever  I  had  seen  that  day,  Horatio ! 
My  father! — methinks  I  see  my  father. 

Hor.     0  where,  my  lord? 

Ham.  In  my  mind's  eye,  Horatio. 

Hor.    I  saw  him  once ;  he  was  a  goodly  king. 

Ham.    He  was  a  man,  take  him  for  all  in  all, 
I  shall  not  look  upon  his  like  again. 

Hor.     My  lord,  I  think  I  saw  him  yesternight. 

Ham.     Saw?  who? 

Hor.    My  lord,  the  king  your  father. 

Ham.  The  king  my  father! 

Hor.     Season  your  admiration  for  a  while 
With  an  attent  ear,  till  I  may  deliver, 
Upon  the  witness  of  these  gentlemen, 
This  marvel  to  you. 

Ham.  For  God's  love,  let  me  hear. 

Hor.     Two  nights  together  had  these  gentlemen, 
Marcellus  and  Bernardo,  on  their  watch, 
In  the  dead  vast  and  middle  of  the  night, 
Been  thus  encounter' d.    A  figure  like  your  father, 
Armed  at  point  exactly,  cap-a-pie, 
Appears  before  them,  and  with  solemn  march 
Goes  slow  and  stately  by  them:   thrice  he  walk'd 
By  their  oppress' d  and  fear-surprised  eyes, 
Within  his  truncheon's  length  ;  whilst  they,  distill' d 


HAMLET.  151 

Almost  to  jelly  with  the  act  of  fear, 

Stand  dumb,  and  speak  not  to  him.     This  to  me 

In  dreadful  secrecy  impart  they  did; 

And  I  with  them  the  third  night  kept  the  watch: 

Where,  as  they  had  deliver' d,  both  in  time, 

Form  of  the  thing,  each  word  made  true  and  good, 

The.  apparition  comes.     I  knew  your  father ; 

These  hands  are  not  more  like. 

Ham.  But  where  was  this  ? 

Mar.     My    lord,    upon    the    platform    where    we 
watch' d. 

Ham.     Did  you  not  speak  to  it? 

Hot.  My  lord,  I  did  ; 

But  answer  made  it  none :   yet  once  methought 
It  lifted  up  its  head  and  did  address 
Itself  to  motion,  like  as  it  would  speak  ; 
But  even  then  the  morning  cock  crew  loud, 
And  at  the  sound  it  shrunk  in  haste  away, 
And  vanish' d  from  our  sight. 

Ham.  'Tis  very  strange. 

Hot.    As  I  do  live,  my  honor' d  lord,  'tis  true ; 
And  we  did  think  it  writ  down  in  our  duty 
To  let  you  know  of  it. 

Ham.     Indeed,  indeed,  sirs,  but  this  troubles  me. 
Hold  you  the  watch  to-night? 

Mar. 


Ber  We  do,  my  lord. 

Ham.    Arm'd,  say  you? 
M*r-  J  Arm?d)  my  lord. 

Ham.    From  top  to  toe? 

M^ar  ) 

d     '  \  My  lord,  from  head  to  foot. 


152 


THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 


Ham.     Then  saw  you  not  his  face? 

Hor.     0,  yes,  my  lord ;  he  wore  his  beaver  up. 

Ham.     What,  look'd  he  frowningly? 

Hot.     A  countenance  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger. 

Ham.     Pale,  or  red  ? 

Hor.     Nay,  very  pale. 

Ham.  And  hx'd  his  eyes  upon  you? 

Hor.     Most  constantly. 

Ham.  I  would  I  had  been  there. 

Hor.     It  would  have  much  amaz'd  you. 

Ham.     Very  like,  very  like.     Stay'd  it  long? 

Hor.     While  one  with  moderate  haste  might  tell 
a  hundred. 

Mar.  i 

Ber. 

Hor. 

Ham. 

Hor. 
A  sable  silver' d. 

Ham.  I'll  watch  to-night ; 

Perchance 'twill  walk  again. 

Hor.  I  warrant  it  will. 

Ham.     If  it  assume  my  noble  father's  person, 
I'll  speak  to  it,  though  hell  itself  should  gape 
And  bid  me  hold  my  peace.     I  pray  you  all, 
If  you  have  hitherto  conceal' d  this  sight, 
Let  it  be  tenable  in  your  silence  still ; 
And  whatsoever  else  shall  hap  to-night, 
Give  it  an  understanding,  but  no  tongue : 
I  will  requite  your  loves.     So,  fare  you  well ; 
Upon  the  platform,  'twixt  eleven  and  twelve, 
I'll  visit  you. 

All.  Our  duty  to  your  honor. 


Longer,  longer. 

Not  when  I  saw  't. 

His  beard  was  grizzled? 
It  was,  as  I  have  seen  it  in  his  life, 


no? 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT.  153 

Ham.     Your  loves,  as  mine  to  you;  farewell. — 
[Horatio,  Marcellus,  and  Bernardo  go  out.] 
My  father's  spirit  in  arms!   all  is  not  well; 
I  doubt  some  foul  play  :  would  the  night  were  come ! 
Till  then  sit  still,  my  soul ;  foul  deeds  will  rise, 
Though  all  the  earth  o'erwhelm  them,  to  men's  eyes. 

ap'  pa  ri'  tion  (rish'un),  a  ghost;  a  ten'  a  ble,  to  be  held,  or  kept. 

phantom.  trim'  cheon   (shun),  a  short  staff, 
cap'-a-pie'  (pe),  from  head  to  foot.  probably  here  a  sort  of  scepter. 

gape  (gap),  open  wide. 


THE   SONG  OF  THE   SHIRT. 

THOMAS   HOOD. 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 
With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 

A  woman  sat,  in   unwomanly  rags, 
Plying  her  needle  and  thread  — 
.     Stitch!   stitch!   stitch! 

In  poverty,   hunger,   and  dirt, 

And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch 

She  sang  the    "Song  of  the   Shirt!" 

"Work  —  work  —  work 
Till  the  brain   begins  to   swim ; 

Work  —  work  —  work 
Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim ! 
Seam,   and  gusset,    and  band, 

Band,   and  gusset,    and  seam, 
Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep, 

And  sew  them  on  in  a  dream! 


154  TEE  NEW  CENTUR  T  READER. 

"O,  Men,  with   Sisters  dear! 

O,  Men,  with  Mothers  and  Wives ! 
It  is  not  linen  you're  wearing  out, 
But  human  creatures'   lives ! 

Stitch  —  stitch  —  stitch, 
In  poverty,   hunger,   and  dirt, 
Sewing  at  once,   with  a  double  thread, 
A   Shroud  as  well  as  a   Shirt. 

"But  why  do  I  talk  of  Death? 

That  Phantom  of  grisly  bone; 
I  hardly  fear  his  terrible  shape, 

It  seems  so  like  my  own — 

It  seems  so  like  my  own, 

Because  of  the  fasts  I  keep ; 
O,   God!  that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 

And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap! 

' '  Work  —  work  —  work  ! 

My  labor  never  flags ; 
And  what  are  its  wages?     A  bed  of  straw, 

A  crust  of  bread — and  rags. 
That  shattered  roof — and  this  naked  floor — 

A  table  —  a  broken  chair  — 
And  a  wall  so  blank,  my  shadow   I  thank 

For  sometimes  .falling  there! 


' '  Work  —  work  —  work  ! 

From  weary  chime  to  chime, 
Work  —  work — work  — 

As  prisoners  work  for  crime! 
Band,   and  gusset,   and  seam, 
Seam,   and  gusset,   and  band, 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT  155 

Till  the  heart  is  sick,  and  the  brain  benumbed, 
As  well  as  the  weary  hand. 

' '  Work  —  work  —  work, 
In  the  dull  December  light, 

And  work  —  work  —  work, 
When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright  — 
While  underneath  the  eaves 

The  brooding  swallows  cling 
As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs 

And  twit  me  with  the   spring. 

#        *        *        *        *        *        * 

"Oh!  but  for  one  short  hour! 
A  respite  however  brief! 
No  blessed  leisure  for  Love  or  Hope 

But  only  time  for  Grief! 
A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart, 

But  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 

Hinders  needle  and  thread!" 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 
Plying  her  needle  and  thread — 

Stitch  !   stitch  !   stitch ! 
In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 
And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch, 
Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  the  Rich ! 
She  sang  this  "Song  of  the  Shirt!" 

dol'  or  ous,  sad;  dismal.  gus'  set,  a  triangular  piece  of  cloth  in- 

llags,  slackens;  halts.  serted  in  a  garment  to  strengthen  or 

ply'  ing,  usiDg  steadily.  enlarge  some  part, 
res'  pite,  pause;  interval  of  rest. 


156  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

OLIVER    GOLDSMITH. 

WILLIAM   M.    THACKERAY. 

{From  "  The  English  Humorists  of  the  Eighteenth  Century.") 

A  wild  youth,  wayward,  but  full  of  tenderness 
and  affection,  quits  the  country  village,  where  his 
boyhood  has  been  passed  in  happy  musing,  in  idle 
shelter,  in  fond  longing  to  see  the  great  world  out 
of  doors,  and  achieve  name  and  fortune:  and  after 
years  of  dire  struggle,  and  neglect  and  poverty,  his 
heart  turning  back  as  fondly  to  his  native  place  as 
it  had  longed  eagerly  for  a  change  when  sheltered 
there,  he  writes  a  book  and  a  poem,  full  of  the 
recollections  and  feelings  of  home:  he  paints  the 
friends  and  scenes  of  his  youth,  and  peoples  Au- 
burn and  Wakefield  with  remembrances  of  Lissoy. 
Wander  he  must,  but  he  carries  away  a  home- 
relic  with  him,  and  dies  with  it  on  his  breast.  His 
nature  is  truant;  in  repose  it  longs  for  change: 
as  on  the  journey  it  looks  back  for  friends  and 
quiet.  He  passes  to-day  in  building  an  air-castle 
for  to-morrow,  or  in  writing  yesterday's  elegy ;  and 
he  would  fly  away  this  hour,  but  that  a  cage  and 
necessity  keep  him. 

What  is  the  charm  of  his  verse,  of  his  style, 
and  humor?  His  sweet  regrets,  his  delicate  com- 
passion, his  soft  smile,  his  tremulous  sympathy,  the 
weakness  which  he  owns?  Your  love  for  him  is 
half  pity.  You  come  hot  and  tired  from  the  day's 
battle,  and  this  sweet  minstrel  sings  to  you.  Who 
could  harm  the  kind  vagrant  harper?  Whom  did 
he  ever  hurt?  He  carries  no  weapon,  save  the  harp 
on   which  he   plays   to   you ;     and   with  which   he 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.  157 

delights  great  and  humble,  young  and  old,  the 
captains  in  the  tents,  or  the  soldiers  round  the  fire, 
or  the  women  and  children  in  the  villages,  at  whose 
porches  he  stops  and  sings  his  simple  songs  of  love 
and  beauty.  With  that  sweet  story  of  "The  Vicar 
of  Wakefield"  he  has  found  entry  into  every  castle 
and  every  hamlet  in  Europe.  Not  one  of  us,  how- 
ever busy  or  hard,  but  once  or  twice  in  our  lives 
has  passed  an  evening  with  him,  and  undergone 
the  charm  of  his  delightful  music. 

Goldsmith's  sweet  and  friendly  nature  bloomed 
kindly  always  in  the  midst  of  a  life's  storm,  and 
rain,  and  bitter  weather.  The  poor  fellow  was  never 
so  friendless  but  he  could  befriend  some  one;  never 
so  pinched  and  wretched  but  he  could  give  of  his 
crust,  and  speak  his  word  of  compassion.  If  he 
had  but  his  flute  left,  he  could  give  that,  and  make 
the  children  happy  in  the  dreary  London  court. 
He  could  give  the  coals  in  that  queer  coal-scuttle 
we  read  of  to  his  poor  neighbor:  he  could  give 
away  his  blankets  in  college  to  the  poor  widow, 
and  warm  himself  as  he  best  might  in  the  feathers : 
he  could  pawn  his  coat  to  save  his  landlord  from 
gad:  when  he  was  a  school-usher  he  spent  his 
earnings  in  treats  for  the  boys,  and  the  good- 
matured  schoolmaster's  wife  said  justly  that  she 
ought  to  keep  Mr.  Goldsmith's  money  as  well  as 
the  young  gentlemen's.  His  purse  and  his  heart 
were  everybody's,  and  his  friends'  as  much  as  his 
own. 

When  he  was  at  the  height  of  his  reputation, 
and  the  Earl  of  Northumberland,  going  as  Lord 
Lieutenant    to    Ireland,   asked    if    he    could    be    of 


]  58  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

any  service  to  Doctor  Goldsmith,  Goldsmith  recom- 
mended his  brother,  and  not  himself,  to  the  great 
man.  "My  patrons,"  he  gallantly  said,  "are  the 
booksellers,  and  I  want  no  others." 

Hard  patrons  they  were,  and  hard  work  he  did ; 
but  he  did  not  complain  much :  If  in  his  early 
writings  some  bitter  words  escaped  him,  some  allu- 
sions to  neglect  and  poverty,  he  withdrew  these 
expressions  when  his  works  were  republished,  and 
better  days  seemed  to  open  for  him;  and  he  did  not 
care  to  complain  that  printer  or  publisher  had  over- 
looked his  merit,  or  left  him  poor.  The  Court  face 
was  turned  from  honest  Oliver,  the  fashion  did  not 
shine  on  him.  He  had  not  the  great  public  with 
him ;  but  he  had  the  noble  Johnson,  and  the  admira- 
ble Reynolds,  and  the  great  Gibbon,  and  the  great 
Burke,  and  the  great  Fox  —  friends  and  admirers 
illustrious  indeed,  as  famous  as  those  who,  fifty 
years  before,  sat  around  Pope's  table. 

For  the  last  half-dozen  years  of  his  life,  Goldsmith 
was  far  removed  from  the  pressure  of  any  ignoble 
necessity :  and  in  the  receipt,  indeed,  of  a  pretty 
large  income  from  the  booksellers,  his  patrons.  Had 
he  lived  but  a  few  years  more,  his  public  fame 
would  have  been  as  great  as  his  private  reputation, 
and  he  might  have  enjoyed  alive  a  part  of  thai 
esteem  which  his  country  has  ever  since  paid  to 
the  vivid  and  versatile  genius  who  has  touched 
on  almost  every  subject  of  literature,  and  touched 
nothing  that  he  did  not  adorn. 

In  the  strength  of  his  age,  and  the  dawn  of 
his  reputation,  having  for  backers  and  friends  the 
most  illustrious  literary  men  of  his  time,  fame  and 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH.'  159 

prosperity  might  have  been  in  store  for  Goldsmith, 
had  fate  so  willed  it,  and  had  not  sndden  disease 
carried  him  off.  I  say  prosperity  rather  than  com- 
petence, for  it  is  probable  that  no  sum  could  have 
put  order  into  his  affairs,  or  sufficed  for  his  habits. 

As  has  been  the  case  with  many  another  good 
fellow  of  his  nation,  his  life  was  tracked  and  his 
substance  wasted  by  crowds  of  hungry  beggars  and 
lazy  dependents.  If  they  came  at  a  lucky  time 
(and  be  sure  they  knew  his  affairs  better  than  he 
did  himself,  and  watched  his  pay-day),  he  gave  them 
of  his  money:  if  they  begged  on  empty-purse  days, 
he  gave  them  his  promissory  bills:  or  he  treated 
them  at  a  tavern  where  he  had  credit ;  or  he  obliged 
them  with  an  order  upon  honest  Mr.  Filby  for 
coats,  for  which  he  paid  as  long  as  he  could  earn, 
and  until  the  shears  of  Filby  were  to  cut  for  him 
no  more. 

Staggering  under  a  load  of  debt  and  labor,  tracked 
by  bailiffs  and  reproachful  creditors,  running  from 
a  hundred  poor  dependents,  whose  appealing  looks 
were  perhaps  the  hardest  of  all  pains  for  him  to 
bear,  devising  fevered  plans  for  the  morrow,  new 
histories,  new  comedies,  all  sorts  of  new  literary 
schemes,  flying  from  all  these  into  seclusion,  and 
out  of  seclusion  into  pleasure — at  last,  at  five-and- 
forty,  death  seized  him  and  closed  his  career. 

I  have  been  many  a  time  in  the  chambers  in  the 
Temple  which  were  his,  and  passed  up  the  staircase, 
which  Johnson  and  Burke,  and  Reynolds  trod  to 
see  their  friend,  their  poet,  their  kind  Goldsmith — 
the  stair  on  which  the  poor  women  sat  weeping 
bitterly  when  they  heard  that  the  greatest  and  most 


160  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

generous  of  all  men  was  dead  within  the  black  oak 
door. 

Ah !  it  was  a  different  lot  from  that  for  which 
the  poor  fellow  sighed,  when  he  wrote  with  heart 
yearning  for  home  those  most  charming  of  all  fond 
verses,  in  which  he  fancies  he  revisits  Auburn :  — 

In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world  of  care, 
In  all  my  griefs  —  and  God  has  given  my  share  — 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 
Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down ; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close, 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose ; 
I  still  had  hopes  —  for  pride  attends  us  still  — 
Amidst  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learned  skill, 
Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw, 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt  and  all  I  saw ; 
And,  as  a  hare,  whom  hounds  and  horn  pursue, 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  he  flew — 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past, 
Here  to  return,  and  die  at  home  at  last. 

Think  of  him,  reckless,  thriftless,  vain,  if  you 
like  — but  merciful,  gentle,  generous,  full  of  love 
and  pity.  He  passes  out  of  our  life,  and  goes  to 
render  his  account  beyond  it.  Think  of  the  poor 
pensioners  weeping  at  his  grave;  think  of  the  noble 
spirits  that  admired  and  deplored  him ;  think  of  the 
righteous  pen  that  wrote  his  epitaph — and  of  the 
wonderful  and  unanimous  response  of  affection  with 
which  the  world  has  paid  back  the  love  he  gave  it. 

ep'  i  taph,  an  inscription  on  a  tomb.  ver'  sa  tile  (til),  turning  with  ease  from 

school'-ush'  er,  an  under-teacher;  one  thing  to  another, 

assistant  to  a  schoolmaster. 


THE  MOON.  161 

4 

THE  MOON. 

RICHARD   A.    PROCTOR. 

(From  "Half-Hours  with  the  Sun  and  Moon.") 

The  moon  perhaps  is  the  easiest  of  all  objects  of 
telescopic  observation.  A  very  moderate  telescope 
will  show  her  most  striking  features,  while  each 
increase  of  power  is  repaid  by  a  view  of  new  details. 

Although  the  moon  is  a  pleasing  and  surprising 
telescopic  object  when  full,  the  most  interesting 
views  of  her  features  are  obtained  at  other  seasons. 

If  we  follow  the  moon  as  she  waxes  or  wanes, 
we  see  the  true  nature  of  that  rough  and  bleak 
mountain  scenery  which  when  the  moon  is  full  is 
partially  softened  through  the  want  of  sharp  con- 
trasts of  light  and  shadow. 

If  we  watch,  even  for  half  an  hour  only,  the 
changing  form  of  the  ragged  line  separating  light 
from  darkness  on  the  moon's  disc,  we  can  not  fail 
to  be  interested.  "The  outlying  and  isolated  peak 
of  some  great  mountain- chain  becomes  gradually 
larger,  and  is  finally  merged  in  the  general  luminous 
surface ;  great  circular  spaces,  enclosed  with  rough 
and  rocky  walls  many  miles  in  diameter,  become 
apparent ;  some  with  flat  and  perfectly  smooth  floors, 
variegated  with  streaks;  others  in  which  the  flat 
floor  is  dotted  with  numerous  pits  or  covered  with 
broken  fragments  of  rock. 

"Occasionally  a  regularly-formed  and  unusually 
symmetrical  circular  formation  makes  its  appearance; 
the  exterior  surface  of  the  wall  bristling  with  terraces 
rising   gradually  from    the    plain,   the  interior  one 


162  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

much  more  steep,  and  instead  of  a  flat  floor,  the 
inner  space  is  concave  or  cup-shaped,  with  a  solitary- 
peak  rising  in  the  center. 

"  Solitary  peaks  rise  from  the  level  plains  and 
cast  their  long,  narrow  shadows  athwart  the  smooth 
surface.  Yast  plains  of  a  dusky  tint  become  visible, 
not  perfectly  level,  but  covered  with  ripples,  pits, 
and  projections.  Circular  wells,  which  have  no  sur- 
rounding wall,  dip  below  the  plain,  and  are  met  with 
even  in  the  interior  of  the  circular  mountains  and 
on  the  tops  of  their  walls. 

"From  some  of  the  mountains  great  streams  of 
a  brilliant  white  radiate  in  all  directions  and  can  be 
traced  for  hundreds  of  miles.  We  see,  again,  great 
fissures,  almost  perfectly  straight  and  of  great  length, 
although  very  narrow,  which  appear  like  the  cracks 
in  moist  clayey  soil  when  dried  by  the  sun." 

But  interesting  as  these  views  may  be,  it  was  not 
for  such  discoveries  as  these  that  astronomers  exam- 
ined the  surface  of  the  moon.  The  principal  charm 
of  astronomy,  as  indeed  of  all  observational  science, 
lies  in  the  study  of  change — of  progress,  develop- 
ment, and  decay,  and  specially  of  systematic  varia- 
tions taking  place  in  regularly -recurring  cycles. 

The  sort  of  scrutiny  required  for  the  discovery  of 
changes,  t)r  for  the  determination  of  their  extent, 
is  far  too  close  and  laborious  to  be  attractive  to  the 
general  observer.  Yet  the  kind  of  observation  which 
avails  best  for  the  purpose  is  perhaps  also  the  most 
interesting  which  he  can  apply  to  the  lunar  details. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  features  of  the  moon, 
when  she  is  observed  with  a  good  telescope,  is  the 
variety  of  color  presented  by  different  parts  of  her 


OF  STUDIES.  163 

surface.  We  see  regions  of  the  purest  white — regions 
which  one  would  be  apt  to  speak  of  as  s now-covered, 
if  one  could  conceive  the  possibility  that  snow  should 
have  fallen  where  (now,  at  least)  there  is  neither  air 
nor  water. 

Then  there  are  the  so-called  seas,  large  gray  or 
neutral-tinted  regions,  differing  from  the  former  not 
merely  in  color  and  in  tone,  but  in  the  photographic 
quality  of  the  light  they  reflect  towards  the  earth. 
Some  of  the  seas  exhibit  a  greenish  tint,  as  the  Sea 
of  Serenity  and  the  Sea  of  Humors. 

Where  there  is  a  central  mountain  within  a  cir- 
cular depression,  the  surrounding  plain  is  generally 
of  a  bluish  steel-gray  color.  There  is  a  region  called 
the  Marsh  of  Sleep,  which  exhibits  a  pale  red  tint. 

The  brightest  portion  of  the  whole  lunar  disc  is 
Aristarchus,  the  peaks  of  which  shine  often  like  stars, 
when  the  mountain  is  within  the  unillumined  por- 
tion of  the  moon.  The  darkest  regions  are  Grimaldi 
and  Endymion,  and  the  great  plain  called  Plato  by 
modern  astronomers  —  but,  by  Hevelius,  the  Greater 
Black  Lake. 


OF   STUDIES 

LORD   BACON. 


Studies  serve  for  delight,  for  ornament,  and  for 
ability.  Their  chief  use  for  delight  is  in  privateness, 
and  retiring ;  for  ornament,  is  in  discourse ;  and  for 
ability,  is  in  the  judgment  and  disposition  of  busi- 
ness; for,  expert  men  can  execute,  and  perhaps 
judge  of  particulars,  one  by  one ;  but  the  general 


164  THE  NEW  CENTURY  HEADER 

counsels,  and  the  plots  and  marshaling  of  affairs, 
come  best  from  those  that  are  learned. 

To  spend  too  much  time  in  studies,  is  sloth ;  to 
use  them  too  much  for  ornament,  is  affectation ;  to 
make  judgment  wholly  by  their  rules,  is  the  humor 
of  a  scholar;  they  perfect  nature,  and  are  perfected 
by  experience — for  natural  abilities  are  like  natural 
plants,  that  need  pruning  by  study ;  and  studies 
themselves  do  give  forth  directions  too  much  at 
large,  except  they  be  bounded- in  by  experience. 

Crafty  men  contemn  studies,  simple  men  admire 
them,  and  wise  men  use  them,  for  they  teach  not 
their  own  use ;  but  that  is  a  wisdom  without  them, 
and  above  them,  won  by  observation.  Read  not  to 
contradict  and  confute,  nor  to  believe  and  take  for 
granted,  nor  to  find  talk  and  discourse,  but  to  weigh 
and  consider. 

Some  books  are  to  be  tasted,  others  to  be  swal 
lowed,  and  some  few  to  be  chewed  and  digested — 
that  is,  some  books  are  to  be  read  only  in  pa  its; 
others  to  be  read,  but  not  curiously ;  and  some  few 
to  be  read  wholly,  and  with  diligence  and  attention. 
Some  books  also  may  be  read  by  deputy,  and 
extracts  made  of  them  by  others ;  but  that  would 
be  only  in  the  less  important  arguments,  and  the 
meaner  sort  of  books ;  else  distilled  books  are,  like 
common  distilled  waters,  flashy  things. 

Reading  maketh  a  full  man,  conference  a  ready 
man,  and  writing  an  exact  man;  and,  therefore,  if 
a  man  write  little,  he  had  need  have  a  great  memory; 
if  he  confer  little,  he  had  need  have  a.  present  wit ; 
and  if  he  read  little,  he  had  need  have  much  cun 
ning,  to  seem  to  know  that  he  doth  not. 


ALONE.  165 

Histories  make  men  wise ;  poets  witty ;  the  math- 
ematics, subtile ;  natural  philosophy,  deep ;  moral, 
grave ;  logic  and  rhetoric,  able  to  contend :  Abeunt 
studia  in  mores.  (The  studies  pass  into  the  manners.) 
Nay,  there  is  no  stond1  or  impediment  in  the  wit,  but 
may  be  wrought  out  by  fit  studies :  like  as  diseases  of 
the  body  may  have  appropriate  exercises.  If  a  man's 
wits  be  wandering,  let  him  study  the  mathematics; 
for  in  demonstrations,  if  his  wit  be  called  away  never 
so  little,  he  must  begin  again ;  if  his  wit  be  not  apt 
to  distinguish  or  find  differences,  let  him  study  the 
schoolmen ;  if  he  be  not  apt  to  beat  over  matters, 
and  to  call  upon  one  thing  to  prove  and  illustrate 
another,  let  him  study  the  lawyers'  cases.  So  every 
defect  of  the  mind  may  have  a  special  receipt. 

craft'  y,  artful;  cunning;  sly.  im  ped'  i  ment,  that  which  hinders  or  impedes. 

dis  tilled',  condensed.  sub' tile,  acute;  penetrating. 


ALONE. 

GEOEGE  HOWL  AND. 

Not  in  the  throng  does  man  prepare 
His  noblest  deeds  to  do,  or  dare, 

Which  heaven  itself  may  own  ; 
But  ere  with  power  divine  endued, 
The  soul  in  deepest  solitude, 
Where  mortal  eye  can  ne'er  intrude, 

Must  first  retire  alone. 

Not  when  embattled  squadrons  meet, 
In  panoply  of  war  complete, 

Are  man's  true  triumphs  shown ; 


i  Hindrance. 


166  THE  NEW  CENTUR  T  HEADER. 

But  when  in  sadness  lie  hath  gone 
Apart,  from  every  aid  withdrawn, 
And  from  the  darkness  till  the  dawn 
Hath  wrestled  there  alone. 

Not  'neath  the  gaze  of  friendly  eyes 
Do  we  behold  the  spirit  rise, 

To  its  full  stature  grown ; 
But  while  the  weary  watchers  sleep 
It  turns  aside  in  silence  deep, 
Its  sleepless  vigils  there  to  keep, 

And  seek  for  strength  alone. 

Then  only  hath  the  prophet's  face 
Put  off  each  weak  and  human  trace, 

And  like  an  angel's  shone ; 
When  he  from  crowded  camp  hath  fled, 
And  on  the  mountain  summit  dread, 
With  clouds  and  darkness  overspread, 

Communed  with  God  alone. 

Not  when  the  loud  huzzas  resound 

And  palms  and  branches  strew  the  ground 

Are  joys  the  deepest  known  ; 
But  when  it  feels  itself  replete 
With  blessedness  so  pure  and  sweet 
No  tongue  the  rapture  can  repeat, 

The  heart  would  be  alone. 

And  when  our  dearest  joys  depart, 
And  anguish  rends  the  bleeding  heart, 

No  idle  dust  is  strewn ; 
No  soothing  words  of  kindred  kind, — 


SING  ME  A  SONG  OF  A  LAD  THAT  IS  GONE.        167 

No  friendly  hand  the  wound  to  bind, 
The  writhing  spirit  seeks  to  find. 
But  goes  to  weep  alone. 

And  when  this  fitful  dream  is  o'er, 
And  friend,  or  foe,  can  do  no  more, 

All  earthly  comforts  flown ; 
When  brightest  mortal  glories  pale, 
And  heart  and  flesh  together  fail, 
The  parting  spirit  lifts  the  veil, 

And  passes  through  alone. 

huz  za',  a  hurrah  ;  a  cheer.  re  plete',  completely  filled. 

pan'  o  ply,  defensive  armor.  stat'  ure,  height. 


SING  ME  A  SONG  OF  A  LAD  THAT  IS  GONE. 

ROBERT  LOUIS   STEVENSON. 

Sing  me  a  song  of  a  lad  that  is  gone, 

Say,  could  that  lad  be  I? 
Merry  of  soul  he  sailed  on  a  day 

Over  the  sea  to  Skye. 

Give  me  again  all  that  was  there, 
Give  me  the  sun  that  shone ! 

Give  me  the  eyes,  give  me  the  soul, 
Give  me  the  lad  that's  gone! 

Billow  and  breeze,  islands  and  seas, 

Mountains  of  rain  and  sun, 
All  that  was  good,  all  that  was  fair, 

All  that  was  me  is  gone. 


168  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

ON  THE  ROAD  TO  MOSCOW. 

COUNT    LEO    N.    TOLSTOI. 

{From  "Childhood,  Boyhood,  Youth.") 

Two  equipages  were  again  brought  to  the  porch 
of  the  Petrovskoe  house :  one  was  a  coach  in  which 
sat  Mimi,  Katenka,  Liubotchka,  and  the  maid,  with 
the  clerk  Yakov  on  the  box ;  the  other  was  a 
britchka,  in  which  rode  Volodya  and  I,  and  the 
footman  Vasili. 

******  * 

The  sun  has  but  just  risen  above  the  dense  white 
clouds  which  veil  the  east,  and  all  the  country 
round  about  is  illuminated  with  a  quietly  cheerful 
light.  All  is  so  very  beautiful  about  me,  and  I  am 
so  tranquil  and  light  of  heart.  The  road  winds 
away  in  front  like  a  wide,  unconnned  ribbon,  amid 
fields  of  dry  stubble,  and  herbage  sparkling  with 
dew.  Here  and  there  by  the  roadside  we  come 
upon  a  gloomy  willow,  or  a  young  birch  with  small 
sticky  leaves,  casting  a  long,  motionless  shadow 
upon  the  dry  clayey  ruts  and  the  short  green  grass 
of  the  highway.  The  monotonous  sound  of  the 
wheels  and  bells  does  not  drown  the  song  of  the 
larks,  who  circle  close  to  the  very  road. 

Yonder  on  the  footpath  which  winds  beside  the 
road,  some  slowly  moving  figures  are  visible ;  they 
are  pilgrims.  Their  heads  are  enveloped  in  dirty 
cloths ;  sacks  of  birch-bark  are  bound  upon  their 
backs ;  their  feet  are  wrapped  in  dirty,  tattered 
footbands,  and  shod  in  heavy  bast  shoes.  Swaying 
their  staves  in  unison,  and  hardly  glancing  at  us, 
they  move  on  with   a    heavy,  deliberate   tread,  one 


ON  THE  ROAD  TO  MOSCOW.  169 

after  the  other ;  and  questions  take  possession  of 
my  mind, —  whither  are  they  going,  and  why  ?  will 
their  journey  last  long?  and  will  the  long  shadows 
which  they  cast  upon  the  road  soon  unite  with  the 
shadow  of  the  willow  which  they  must  pass? 

Here  a  calash  with  four  post-horses  comes  rapidly 
to  meet  us.  Two  seconds  more,  and  the  faces  which 
look  at  us  with  polite  curiosity  have  already  flashed 
past ;  and  it  seems  strange  that  these  faces  have 
nothing  in  common  with  me,  and  that,  in  all  prob- 
ability, I  shall  never  behold  them  again. 

Here  come  two  shaggy,  perspiring  horses,  gallop- 
ing along  the  side  of  the  road  in  their  halters,  with 
the  traces  knotted  up  to  the  breech  strap ;  and 
behind,  with  his  long  legs  and  huge  shoes  dangling 
on  each  side  of  a  horse,  rides  a  young  lad  of  a 
postilion,  with  his  lamb's-wool  cap  cocked  over  one 
ear,  drawling  a  long-drawn-out  song.  His  face  and 
attitude  are  expressive  of  so  much  lazy,  careless 
content,  that  it  seems  to  me  it  would  be  the  height 
of  bliss  to  be  a  post-boy,  ,to  ride  the  horses  home, 
and  sing  some  melancholy  songs. 

Yonder,  far  beyond  the  ravine,  a  village  church 
with  its  green  roof  is  visible  against  the  bright 
blue  sky  ;  yonder  is  a  hamlet,  the  red  roof  of  a 
gentleman's  house,  and  a  green  garden.  Who  lives 
in  this  house?  Are  there  children  in  it,  father, 
mother,  tutor?  Why  should  we  not  go  and  make 
the  acquaintance  of  the  owner? 

Here  is  a  long  train  of  huge  wagons  harnessed 
to  troikas  of  well-fed,  thick-legged  horses,  which  we 
are  obliged  to  turn  out  to  pass.  "What  are  you 
carrying?"  inquires  Vasili  of  the  first  carter,  who, 

12 


170  TEE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

with  his  big  feet  hanging  from  the  board  which 
forms  his  seat,  and  flourishing  his  whip,  regards  us 
for  a  long  time  with  an  intent,  mindless  gaze,  and 
only  makes  some  sort  of  reply  when  it  is  impos- 
sible for  him  not  to  hear.  "With  what  wares  do 
you  travel?"  Vasili  asks,  turning  to  another  team, 
upon  whose  railed-in  front  lies  another  carter  be- 
neath a  new  rug.  A  blonde  head,  accompanied  by 
a  red  face  and  a  reddish  beard,  is  thrust  out  from 
beneath  the  rug  for  a  moment ;  it  casts  a  glance  of 
indifferent  scorn  upon  us,  and  disappears  again ;  and 
the  thought  occurs  to  me  that  these  carters  surely 
cannot  know  who  we  are  and  whither  we  are  going. 

bast,  rope  or  matting  made  of  inner  ca  lash',  light  carriage. 

bark  of  the  lime-tree.  pos  til'  ion  (yun),  one  who  rides  a  post- 

britch'  ka,  in  Russia,  a  light,  partly  horse. 

covered  four-wheeled  carriage.  troi'  ka,  team  of  three  horses  harnessed 

abreast. 


MY  FIRST  GEOLOGICAL  TRIP. 

SIR  ARCHIBALD   GEIKIE. 

{From  "  Geological  Sketches  at  Home  and  Abroad.") 

We  started  off  about  noon ;  a  goodly  band  of 
some  eight  or  nine  striplings,  with  two  or  three 
hammers,  and  a  few  pence  amongst  us,  and  no  need 
to  be  home  before  dusk. 

An  October  sun  shone  merrily  out  upon  us.  The 
neighboring  woods,  gorgeous  in  their  tints  of  green, 
gold,  and  russet,  sent  forth  clouds  of  rooks,  whose 
noisy  jangle,  borne  onward  by  the  breeze,  and  min- 
gling with  the  drone  of  the  bee  and  the  carol  of  the 
lark,  grew  mellow  in  the  distance,  as  the  cadence  of 
a  far-off  hymn. 


MY  FIRST  GEOLOGICAL  TRIP.  171 

Our  path  lay  through  a  district  rich  in  historic 
associations.  Watch-peels,  castles,  and  towers  looked 
out  upon  us  as  we  walked,  each  with  its  traditionary 
tales,  the  recital  of  which  formed  one  of  our  chief 
delights.  Or  if  a  castle  lacked  its  story,  our  inven- 
tion easily  supplied  the  defect.  And  thus  every 
part  of  the  way  came  to  be  memorable  in  our  eyes 
for  some  thrilling  event,  real  or  imaginary. 

Thus  beguiled,  the  four  miles  seemed  to  shrink 
into  one,  and  we  arrived  at  length  at  the  quarries. 
They  had  been  opened,  I  found,  along  the  slope  of 
a  gentle  declivity.  We  made  for  a  point  midway 
in  the  excavations ;  and  great  indeed  was  our  delight, 
on  climbing  a  long  bank  of  grass-grown  rubbish,  to 
see  below  us  a  green  hollow,  and  beyond  it  a  wall 
of  rock,  in  the  center  of  which  yawned  a  dark  cav- 
ern, plunging  away  into  the  hill  far  from  the  light 
of  day. 

My  companions  rushed  down  the  slope  with  a 
shout  of  triumph.  For  myself,  I  lingered  a  moment 
on  the  top.  With  just  a  tinge  of  sadness  in  the 
thought,  I  felt  that  though  striking  and  picturesque 
beyond  anything  of  the  kind  I  had  ever  seen,  this 
cavern  was  after  all  only  a  piece  of  human  handiwork. 

The  heaps  of  rubbish  around  me  had  no  connec- 
tion with  beings  of  another  world,  but  told  only  too 
plainly  of  ingenious,  indefatigable  man.  The  spell 
was  broken  at  once  and  forever,  and,  as  it  fell  to 
pieces,  I  darted  down  the  slope  and  rejoined  my 
comrades. 

They  had  already  entered  the  cave,  which  was 
certainly  vast  and  gloomy  enough  for  whole  legions 
of  gnomes.     The   roof,  steep   as   that   of   a   house, 


1 12  THE  NEW  CENTUR  T  READER. 

sloped  rapidly  into  the  hillside  beneath  a  murky 
sheet  of  water,  and  was  supported  by  pillars  of  wide 
girth ;  the  cavern,  with  its  inclined  roof  and  pillars, 
half  sunk  in  the  water,  looked  as  though  it  had 
been  rent  and  submerged  by  some  old  earthquake. 

Not  a  vestige  of  vegetation  could  we  see,  save, 
near  the  entrance,  some  dwarfed  scolopendriums  and 
pale  patches  of  moss.  Not  an  insect,  not  indeed 
any  living  thing  seemed  ever  to  venture  down  into 
this  dreary  den.  Away  it  stretched  to  the  right 
hand  and  the  left,  in  long  withdrawing  vistas  of 
gloom,  broken,  as  we  could  faintly  see,  by  the  light 
which,  entering  from  other  openings  along  the  hill- 
side, fell  here  and  there  on  some  hoary  pillar,  and 
finally  vanished  into  the  shade. 

It  is  needless  to  recall  what  achievements  we 
performed ;  enough,  that,  having  satisfied  our  souls 
with  the  wonders  below  ground,  we  set  out  to 
explore  those  above. 

"But  where  are  the  petrified  forests  and  fishes?" 
cried  one  of  the  party. 

"Here  !  "  "Here  !  "  was  shouted  in  reply  from  the 
top  of  the  bank. 

We  made  for  the  heap  of  broken  stones  whence 
the  voices  had  come,  and  there,  truly,  on  every  block 
and  every  fragment  the  fossils  met  our  eye,  some- 
times so  thickly  grouped  together  that  we  could 
barely  see  the  stone  on  which  they  lay.  I  bent 
over  the  mound,  and  the  first  fragment  that  turned 
up  (my  first-found  fossil)  was  one  that  excited  the 
deepest  interest. 

The  commander-in-chief  of  the  excursion,  who  was 
regarded  (perhaps  as  much  from  his  bodily  stature 


MY  FIRST  GEOLOGICAL  TRIP.  173 

as  for  any  other  reason)  an  authority  on  these 
questions,  pronounced  my  treasure-trove  to  be,  un- 
mistakably and  unequivocally,  a  fish.  True,  it  seemed 
to  lack  head  and  tail  and  fins ;  the  liveliest  fancy 
amongst  us  hesitated  as  to  which  were  the  scales ; 
and  in  after  years  I  learned  that  it  was  really  a 
vegetable  —  the  seed-cone  or  catkin  of  a  large  ex- 
tinct kind  of  club-moss ;  but,  in  the  meantime,  Tom 
had  declared  it  to  be  a  fish,  and  a  fish  it  must 
assuredly  be. 

Like  other  schoolboys,  I  had,  of  course,  had  my 
lessons  on  geology  in  the  usual  meager,  cut-and-dried 
form  in  which  physical  science  was  then  taught  in 
our  schools.  I  could  repeat  a  "Table  of  Forma- 
tions," and  remembered  the  pictures  of  some  uncouth 
monsters  on  the  pages  of  our  text-books  —  one  with 
goggle-eyes,  no  neck,  and  a  preposterous  tail ;  another 
with  an  unwieldy  body,  and  no  tail  at  all,  for  which 
latter  defect  I  had  endeavored  to  compensate  by 
inserting  a  long  pipe  into  his  mouth,  receiving  from 
our  master  (Ironsides,  we  called  him)  a  hearty  rap 
across  the  knuckles,  as  a  recompense  for  my  atten- 
tion to  the  creature's  comfort. 

But  the  notion  that  these  pictures  were  the  rep- 
resentations of  actual,  though  now  extinct  monsters, 
that  the  matter-of-fact  details  of  our  text-books  really 
symbolized  living  truths,  and  were  not  invented 
solely  to  distract  the  brains  and  endanger  the  palms 
of  schoolboys ;  nay,  that  the  statements  which  seemed 
so  dry  and  unintelligible  in  print  were  such  as  could 
be  actually  verified  by  our  own  eyes  in  nature,  that 
beneath  and  beyond  the  present  creation,  in  the 
glories   of  which  we  reveled,    there   lay  around   us 


174  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER 

the  memorials  of  other  creations  not  less  glorious, 
and  infinitely  older,  and  thus  that  more,  immensely 
more,  than  our  books  or  our  teachers  taught  us 
could  be  learnt  by  looking  at  nature  for  ourselves  — 
all  this  was  strange  to  me.  It  came  now  for  the 
first  time  like  a  new  revelation,  one  that  has  glad- 
dened my  life  ever  since. 

We  worked  on  industriously  at  the  rubbish  heap, 
and  found  an  untold  sum  of  wonders.  The  human 
mind  in  its  earlier  stages  dwells  on  resemblances, 
rather  than  on  differences.  We  identified  what  we 
found  in  the  stones  with  that  to  which  it  most 
nearly  approached  in  existing  nature,  and  though 
many  an  organism  turned  up  to  which  we  could 
think  of  no  analogue,  we  took  no  trouble  to  dis- 
criminate wherein  it  differed  from  others.  Hence,  to 
our  imagination,  the  plants,  insects,  shells,  and  fishes 
of  our  rambles  met  us  again  in  the  rock.  There 
was  little  that  some  one  of  the  party  could  not 
explain,  and  thus  our  limestone  became  a  more 
extraordinary  conglomeration  of  organic  remains,  I 
will  venture  to  say,  than  ever  perturbed  the  brain 
of  a  geologist. 

It  did  not  occur  at  the  time  to  any  of  us  to 
inquire  why  a  perch  came  to  be  embalmed  among 
ivy  and  rose  leaves ;  why  a  seashore  whelk  lay  en- 
twined in  the  arms  of  a  butterfly;  or  why  a  beetle 
should  seem  to  have  been  doing  his  utmost  to  dance 
a  pirouette  round  the  tooth  of  a  fish. 

These  questions  came  all  to  be  asked  afterward, 
and  then  I  saw  how  erroneous  had  been  our  boy- 
ish identifications.  But,  in  the  meantine,  knowing 
little  of  the  subject,  I  believed  everything,  and  with 


MY  FIRST  GEOLOGICAL  TRIP.  175 

implicit  faith  piled  up  dragon-flies,  ferns,  fishes, 
beetle-cases,  violets,  sea-weeds,  and  shells. 

The  shadows  of  twilight  had  begun  to  fall  while 
we  still  bent  eagerly  over  the  stones.  The  sun,  with 
a  fiery  glare,  had  sunk  behind  the  distant  hills. 
The  chill  of  evening  now  began  to  fall  over  every- 
thing, save  the  spirits  of  the  treasure-seekers.  And 
yet  they  too  in  the  end  succumbed.  And,  as  the 
moanings  of  the  night-wind  swept  across  the  fields, 
it  was  wisely  resolved  that  we  should  all  go  home. 

Then  came  the  packing  up.  Each  had  amassed 
a  pile  of  specimens,  well-nigh  as  large  as  himself, 
and  it  was  of  course  impossible  to  carry  everything 
away.  A  rapid  selection  had  therefore  to  be  made. 
And  oh  !  with  how  much  reluctance  were  we  com- 
pelled to  relinquish  many  of  the  stones,  the  dis- 
covery whereof  had  made  the  opposite  cavern  ring 
again  with  our  jubilee. 

Not  one  of  us  had  had  the  foresight  to  provide 
himself  with  a  bag,  so  we  stowed  away  the  treasures 
in  our  pockets.  Surely  practical  geometry  offers 
not  a  more  perplexing  problem  than  to  gauge  the 
capacity  of  these  parts  of  a  schoolboy's  dress.  So 
we  loaded  ourselves  to  the  full,  and  marched  along 
with  the  fossils  crowded  into  every  available  corner. 

Such  was  my  first  geological  excursion  —  a  simple 
event  enough,  and  yet  the  turning  point  in  a  life. 
Thenceforward  the  rocks  and  their  fossil  treasures 
formed  the  chief  subject  of  my  e very-day  thoughts. 
That  day  stamped  my  fate,  and  I  became  a  geologist. 

de  cliv'  i  ty,  a  downward  slope.  pic'  tur  esque'  (esk'\  forming  an 

erro'ne  ovis,  false;  mistaken.  .  interesting  or  striking  picture. 

fos'  sil,  remains  of  plants  and  animals  pre  pos'  ter  ous,  absurd;  ridiculous. 

found  buried  in  the  earth.  scol  o  pen'  dri  am,  a  kind  of  fern. 

Gei'  kie  (ge'  kl),  a  Scottish  geologist.  vis'  ta,  a  view  through  an  avenue. 


176  THE  NEW  GENTUR  Y  READER. 

THE  SOUTH. 

RICHARD   HENRY   STODDARD. 

Fall,  thickly  fall,  thou  winter  snow ! 

And  keenly  blow,  thou  winter  wind ! 
Only  the  barren  North  is  yours, 

The  South  delights  a  summer  mind ; 
So  fall  and  blow, 
Both  wind  and  snow, 
My  Fancy  to  the  South  doth  go. 

Half-way  between  the  frozen  zones, 

Where  Winter  reigns  in  sullen  mirth, 
The  Summer  binds  a  golden  belt 

About  the  middle  of  the  Earth. 
The  sky  is  soft,  and  blue,  and  bright, 
With  purple  dyes  at  morn  and  night; 
And  bright  and  blue  the  seas  which  lie 
In  perfect  rest,  and  glass  the  sky. 
And  sunny  bays  with  inland  curves 

Round  all  along  the  quiet  shore ; 
And  stately  palms  in  pillared  ranks 
Grow  down  the  borders  of  the  banks, 

And  juts  of  land  where  billows  roar. 
The  spicy  woods  are  full  of  birds, 

And  golden  fruits  and  crimson  flowers; 
With  wreathed  vines  on  every  bough, 

That  shed  their  grapes  in  purple  showers. 
The  emerald  meadows  roll  their  waves, 

And  bask  in  soft  and  mellow  light ; 
The  vales  are  full  of  silver  mist, 

And  all  the  folded  hills  are  bright. 


THE  SOUTH.  Ill 

But  far  along  the  welkin's  rim 

The  purple  crags  and  peaks  are  dim  ; 

And  dim  the  gulfs,  and  gorges  blue,     • 

With  all  the  wooded  passes  deep ; 
All  steeped  in  haze,  and  washed  in  dew, 

And  bathed  in  atmospheres  of  Sleep. 

Sometimes  the  dusky  islanders 

Lie  all  day  long  beneath  the  trees, 
And  watch  the  white  clouds  in  the  sky, 

And  birds  upon  the  azure  seas. 
Sometimes  they  wrestle  on  the  turf, 

And  chase  each  other  down  the  sands, 
And  sometimes  climb  the  bloomy  groves, 

And  pluck  the  fruit  with  idle  hands. 
And  dark-eyed  maidens  braid  their  hair 

With  starry  shells,  and  buds,  and  leaves, 
And  sing  wild  songs  in  dreamy  bowers, 

And  dance  on  dewy  eves, 
When  daylight  melts,  and  stars  are  few, 

And  west  winds  frame  a  drowsy  tune, 
Till  all  the  charmed  waters  sleep 

Beneath  a  yellow  moon. 

Here  men  may  dwell,  and  mock  at  toil, 

And  all  the  dull,  mechanic  arts ; 
No  need  to  till  the  teeming  soil, 

With  weary  hands  and  aching  hearts. 
No  want  can  follow  folded  palms, 
For  Nature  doth  supply  her  alms 
With  sweets,  purveyors  can  not  bring 
To  grace  the  table  of  a  King ; 
While  Summer  broods  o'er  land  and  sea, 


178  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

And  breathes  in  all  the  winds, 

Until  her  presence  fills  their  hearts, 

And  molds  their  happy  minds. 

jut,  a  projection.  pur  vey'  or  (va'),  one  who  provides  food. 

pi]/  lured,  like  pillars  or  columns.  wel'  kin,  the  sky. 


THE  VAGABOND. 

ROBERT  LOUIS   STEVENSON. 

Give  to  me  the  life  I  love, 

Let  the  lave  go  by  me, 
Give  the  jolly  heaven  above 

And  the  byway  nigh  me. 
Bed  in  the  bush  with  stars  to  see, 

Bread  I  dip  in  the  river  — 
There's  the  life  for  a  man  like  me, 

There's  the  life  forever. 

Or  let  autumn  fall  on  me 

Where  afield  I  linger, 
Silencing  the  bird  on  tree, 

Biting  the  blue  finger : 
White  as  meal  the  frosty  field — 

Warm  the  fireside  haven  — 
Not  to  autumn  will  I  yield, 

Not  to  winter  even ! 

Let  the  blow  fall  soon  or  late, 

Let  what  will  be  o'er  me ; 
Give  the  face  of  earth  around 

And  the  road  before  me. 
Wealth  I  ask  not,  hope,  nor  love, 

Nor  a  friend  to  know  me. 
All  I  ask  the  heaven  above 

And  the  road  below  me. 


DORLCOTE  MILL.  179 


DORLCOTE    MILL. 


GEOKGE  ELIOT. 

{From  the  "Mill  on  the  Floss.") 

A  wide  plain,  where  the  broadening  Floss  hurries 
on  between  its  green  banks  to  the  sea,  and  the 
loving  tide,  rushing  to  meet  it,  checks  its  passage 
with  an  impetuous  embrace.  On  this  mighty  tide 
the  black  ships,  laden  with  the  fresh-scented  fir- 
planks,  with  rounded  sacks  of  oil-bearing  seed,  or 
with  the  dark  glitter  of  coal,  are  borne  along  to  the 
town  of  St.  Ogg's,  which  shows  its  aged,  fluted  red 
roofs  and  the  broad  gables  of  its  wharves  between 
the  low  wooded  hill  and  the  river  brink,  tingeing 
the  water  with  a  soft  purple  hue  under  the  transient 
glance  of  this  February  sun. 

Far  away  on  each  hand  stretch  the  rich  pastures 
and  the  patches  of  dark  earth,  made  ready  for  the 
seed  of  the  broad-leaved  green  crops,  or  touched 
already  with  the  tint  of  the  tender-bladed  autumn- 
sown  corn.  There  is  a  remnant  still  of  the  last 
year's  golden  clusters  of  beehive  ricks  rising  at  inter- 
vals beyond  the  hedgerows ;  and  everywhere  the 
hedgerows  are  studded  with  trees ;  the  distant  ships 
seem  to  be  lifting  their  masts  and  stretching  their 
red-brown  sails  close  among  the  branches  of  the 
spreading  ash.  Just  by  the  red -roofed  town  the 
tributary  Ripple  flows  with  a  lively  current  into  the 
Floss. 

How  lovely  the  little  river  is,  with  its  dark, 
changing  wavelets !  It  seems  to  me  like  a  living 
companion  while  I  wander  along  the  bank  and  listen 


180  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

to  its  low  placid  voice,  as  to  the  voice  of  one  who 
is  deaf  and  loving.  I  remember  those  large  dipping 
willows.     I  remember  the  stone  bridge. 

And  this  is  Dorlcote  Mill.  I  must  stand  a  minute 
or  two  here  on  the  bridge  and  look  at  it,  though 
the  clouds  are  threatening,  and  it  is  far  on  in  the 
afternoon.  Even  in  this  leafless  time  of  departing 
February  it  is  pleasant  to  look  at  it — perhaps  the 
chill  damp  season  adds  a  charm  to  the  trimly-kept, 
comfortable  dwelling-house,  as  old  as  the  elms  and 
chestnuts  that  shelter  it  from  the  northern  blast. 

The  stream  is  brimful  now,  and  lies  high  in  this 
little  withy  plantation,  and  half  drowns  the  grassy 
fringe  of  the  croft  in  front  of  the  house.  As  I  look 
at  the  full  stream,  the  vivid  grass,  the  delicate 
bright-green  powder  softening  the  outline  of  the 
great  trunks  and  branches  that  gleam  from  under 
the  bare  purple  boughs,  I  am  in  love  with  moist- 
ness,  and  envy  the  white  ducks  that  are  dipping 
their  heads  far  into  the  water  here  among  the 
withes,  unmindful  of  the  awkward  appearance  they 
make  in  the  drier  world  above. 

The  rush  of  the  water  and  the  booming  of  the  mill 
bring  a  dreamy  deafness,  which  seems  to  heighten 
the  peacefulness  of  the  scene.  They  are  like  a 
great  curtain  of  sound,  shutting  one  out  from  the 
world  beyond.  And  now,  there  is  the  thunder  of  the 
huge  covered  wagon,  coming  home  with  sacks  of 
grain.  That  honest  wagoner  is  thinking  of  his  din- 
ner, ,  getting  sadly  dry  in  the  oven  at  this  late 
hour ;  but  he  will  not  touch  it  till  he  has  fed  his 
horses — the  strong,  submissive,  meek-eyed  beasts, 
who,  I  fancy,  are  looking  mild  reproach  at  him  from 


DOBLCOTE  MILL.  181 

between  their  blinders,  that  he  should  crack  his  whip 
at  them  in  that  awful  manner,  as  if  they  needed 
that  hint.  See  how  they  stretch  their  shoulders  up 
the  slope  toward  the  bridge,  with  all  the  more  energy 
because  they  are  so  near  home.  Look  at  their  grand 
shaggy  feet,  that  seem  to  grasp  the  firm  earth,  at 
the  patient  strength  of  their  necks  bowed  under 
the  heavy  collar,  at  the  mighty  muscles  of  their 
struggling  haunches !  I  should  like  well  to  hear 
them  neigh  over  their  hardly-earned  feed  of  corn, 
to  see  them,  with  their  moist  necks  freed  from  the 
harness,  dipping  their  eager  nostrils  into  the  muddy 
pond.  Now  they  are  on  the  bridge,  and  down  they 
go  again  at  a  swifter  pace,  and  the  arch  of  the 
covered  wagon  disappears  at  the  turning  behind 
the  trees. 

Now  I  can  turn  my  eyes  toward  the  mill  again, 
and  watch  the  unresting  wheel  sending  out  its 
diamond  jets  of  water.  That  little  girl  is  watching 
it  too :  she  has  been  standing  on  just  the  same 
spot  at  the  edge  of  the  water  ever  since  I  paused 
on  the  bridge.  And  that  queer  white  cur  with  the 
brown  ear  seems  to  be  leaping  and  barking  in  inef- 
fectual remonstrance  with  the  wheel ;  perhaps  he  is 
jealous  because  his  playfellow  in  the  beaver  bonnet 
is  so  rapt  in  its  movement. 

It  is  time  the  little  playfellow  went  in,  I  think ; 
and  there  is  a  very  bright  fire  to  tempt  her:  the 
red  light  shines  out  under  the  deepening  gray  of 
the  sky.  It  is  time,  too,  for  me  to  leave  off  resting 
my  arms  on  the  cold  stone  of  this  bridge.     *    *    * 

Ah !  my  arms  are  really  benumbed.     I  have  been 


182  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

pressing  my  elbows  on  the  arms  of  my  chair,  and 
dreaming  that  I  was  standing  on  the  bridge  in  front 
of  Dorlcote  Mill,  as  it  looked  one  February  after- 
noon many  years  ago. 


LABOR  AND  GENIUS. 

SYDNEY   SMITH. 

{From  "On  the  Conduct  of  the  Understanding.")  , 

The  prevailing  idea  with  young  people  has  been 
the  incompatibility  of  labor  and  genius ;  and  there- 
fore, from  the  fear  of  being  thought  dull,  they  have 
thought  it  necessary  to  remain  ignorant.  I  have 
seen,  at  school  and  at  college,  a  great  many  young 
men  completely  destroyed  by  having  been  so  unior- 
tunate  as  to  produce  an  excellent  copy  of  verses. 

Their  genius  being  now  established,  all  that  re- 
mained for  them  to  do  was,  to  act  up  to  the  dignity 
of  the  character ;  and  as  this  dignity  consisted  in 
reading  nothing  new,  in  forgetting  what  they  had 
already  read,  and  in  pretending  to  be  acquainted 
with  all  subjects,  by  a  sort  of  off-hand  exertion  of 
talents,  they  soon  collapsed  into  the  most  frivolous 
and  insignificant  of  men. 

"When  we  have  had  continually  before  us," 
says  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  "the  great  works  of  art, 
to  impregnate  our  minds  with  kindred  ideas,  we  are 
then,  and  not  till  then,  fit  to  produce  something  of 
the  same  species. 

uThe  greatest  natural  genius  can  not  subsist  on 
its  own  stock :  he  who  resolves  never  to  ransack  any 
mind  but  his  own,  will  be  soon  reduced  from  mere 


LABOR  AND  GENIUS.  183 

barrenness  to  the  poorest  of  all  imitations ;  he  will 
be  obliged  to  imitate  himself,  and  to  repeat  what  he 
has  before  repeated.  When  we  know  the  subject 
designed  by  such  men,  it  will  never  be  difficult 
to  guess  what  kind  of  work  is  to  be  produced." 
There  is  but  one  method,  and  that  is  hard  labor; 
and  a  man  who  will  not  pay  that  price  for  distinc- 
tion had  better  at  once  dedicate  himself  to  the  pur- 
suits of  the  fox  —  or  talk  of  bullocks,  and  glory  in 
the  goad !  There  are  many  modes  of  being  frivolous, 
and  not  a  few  of  being  useful ;  there  is  but  one 
mode  of  being  intellectually  great. 

It  would  be  an  extremely  profitable  thing  to  draw 
up  a  short  and  well-authenticated  account  of  the 
habits  of  study  of  the  most  celebrated  writers  with 
whose  style  of  literary  industry  we  happen  to  be 
most  acquainted.  It  would  go  very  far  to  destroy 
the  absurd  and  pernicious  association  of  genius  and 
idleness,  by  showing  them  that  the  greatest  poets, 
orators,  statesmen,  and  historians — men  of  the  most 
brilliant  and  imposing  talents — have  actually  labored 
as  hard  as  the  makers  of  dictionaries  and  the 
arrangers  of  indexes ;  and  that  the  most  obvious 
reason  why  they  have  been  superior  to  other  men 
is,  that  they  have  taken  more  pains  than  other  men. 

Gibbon  was  in  his  study  every  morning,  winter 
and  summer,  at  six  o'clock;  Mr.  Burke  was  the 
most  laborious  and  indefatigable  of  hitman  beings ; 
Leibnitz  was  never  out  of  his  library ;  Pascal  killed 
himself  by  study;  Cicero  narrowly  escaped  death 
by  the  same  cause ;  Milton  was  at  his  books  with 
as  much  regularity  as  a  merchant  or  an  attorney  — 
he  had  mastered  all  the  knowledge  of  his  time ;  so 


184  THE  NEW  CENTUR  Y  READER 

had  Homer.  Raphael  lived  but  thirty-seven  years; 
and  in  that  short  space  carried  the  art  so  far 
beyond  what  it  had  before  reached,  that  he  appears 
to  stand  alone  as  a  model  to  his  successors. 

There  are  instances  to  the  contrary,  but,  generally 
speaking,  the  life  of  all  truly  great  men  has  been 
a  life  of  intense  and  incessant  labor.  They  have 
commonly  passed  the  first  half  of  life  in  the 
gross  darkness  of  indigent  humility  —  overlooked, 
mistaken,  contemned,  by  weaker  men  —  thinking 
while  others  slept,  reading  while  others  rioted,  feel- 
ing something  within  them  that  told  them  they 
should  not  always  be  kept  down  among  the  dregs 
\  of. the  world;  and  then,  when  their  time  was  come, 
and  some  little  accident  has  given  them  their  first 
occasion,  they  have  burst  out  into  the  light  and 
glory  of  public  life,  rich  with  the  spoils  of  time, 
and  mighty  in  all  the  labors  and  struggles  of  the 
mind. 

Then  do  the  multitude  cry  out,  "A  miracle  of 
genius!"  Yes,  he  is  a  miracle  of  genius,  because 
he  is  a  miracle  of  labor ;  because,  instead  of  trust- 
ing to  the  resources  of  his  own  single  mind,  he  has 
ransacked  a  thousand  minds ;  because  he  makes  use 
of  the  accumulated  wisdom  of  ages,  and  takes  as 
his  point  of  departure  the  very  last  line  and  bound- 
ary to  which  science  has  advanced;  because  it  has 
ever  been  the  object  of  his  life  to  assist  every  intel- 
lectual gift  of  nature,  however  munificent,  and  how- 
ever splendid,  with  every  resource  that  art  could 
suggest,  and  every  attention  diligence  could  bestow. 


A  LEGEND  OF  BREGENZ.  185 

A  LEGEND   OF  BREGENZ. 

ADELAIDE    A.    PROCTER. 

Girt  round  with  rugged  mountains 

The  fair  Lake  Constance  lies; 
In  her  blue  heart  reflected 

Shine  back  the  starry  skies ; 
And,  watching  each  white  cloudlet 

Float  silently  and  slow, 
You  think  a  piece  of  Heaven 

Lies  on  our  earth  below! 

Midnight  is  there:  and  Silence, 

Enthroned  in  Heaven,  looks  down 
Upon  her  own  calm  mirror, 

Upon  a  sleeping  town : 
For  Bregenz,  that  quaint  city 

Upon  the  Tyrol  shore, 
Has  stood  above  Lake  Constance 

A  thousand  years  and  more. 

Her  battlements  and  towers, 

From  off  their  rocky  steep, 
Have  cast  their  trembling  shadow 

For  ages  on  the  deep: 
Mountain,  and  lake,  and  valley, 

A  sacred  legend  know, 
Of  how  the  town  was  saved,  one  night, 

Three  hundred  years  ago. 


Far  from  her  home  and  kindred, 
A  Tyrol  maid  had  fled, 

To  serve  in  the  Swiss  valleys, 
And  toil  for  daily  bread; 


{/ 


186  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

And  every  year  that  fleeted 

So  silently  and  fast, 
Seemed  to  bear  farther  from  her 

The  memory  of  the  Past. 


She  spoke  no  more  of  Bregenz, 

With  longing  and  with  tears; 
Her  Tyrol  home  seemed  faded 

In  a  deep  mist  of  years ; 
She  heeded  not  the  rumors 

Of  Austrian  war  and  strife; 
Each  day  she  rose  contented, 

To  the  calm  toils  of  life. 


And  so  she  dwelt:  the  valley 

More  peaceful  year  by  year; 
When  suddenly  strange  portents 

Of  some  great  deed  seemed  near. 
The  golden  corn  was  bending 

Upon  its  fragile  stalk, 
While  farmers,  heedless  of  their  fields, 

Paced  up  and  down  in  talk. 

The  men  seemed  stern  and  altered, 

With  looks  cast  on  the  ground ; 
With  anxious  faces,  one  by  one, 

The  women  gathered  round ; 
All  talk  of  flax,  or  spinning, 

Or  work,  was  put  away ; 
The  very  children  seemed  afraid 

To  go  alone  to  play. 


A  LEGEND  OF  BREGENZ.  187 

One  day,  out  in  the  meadow 

With  strangers  from  the  town, 
Some  secret  plan  discussing, 

The  men  walked  up  and  down. 
Yet  now  and  then  seemed  watching 

A  strange  uncertain  gleam, 
That  looked  like  lances  '  mid  the  trees, 

That  stood  below  the  stream. 

At  eve  they  all  assembled, 

Then  care  and  doubt  were  fled ; 
With  jovial  laugh  they  feasted; 

The  board  was  nobly  spread. 
The  elder  of  the  village 

Rose  up,  his  glass  in  hand, 
And  cried,  "We  drink  the  downfall 

Of  an  accursed  land ! 

"The  night  is  growing  darker, 

Ere  one  more  day  is  flown, 
Bregenz,  our  foemen's  stronghold, 

Bregenz  shall  be  our  own!" 
The  women  shrank  in  terror, 

(Yet  Pride,  too,  had  her  part,) 
But  one  poor  Tyrol  maiden 

Felt  death  within  her  heart. 


Nothing  she  heard  around  her, 

(Though  shouts  rang  forth  again,) 

Gone  were  the  green  Swiss  valleys, 
The  pasture,  and  the  plain ; 


188  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

Before  her  eyes  one  vision, 
And  in  her  heart  one  cry, 

That  said,  "Go  forth,  save  Bregenz, 
And  then,  if  need  be,  die!" 

With  trembling  haste  and  breathless, 

With  noiseless  step,  she  sped ; 
Horses  and  weary  cattle 

Were  standing  in  the  shed ; 
She  loosed  the  strong,  white  charger, 

That  fed  from  ont  her  hand, 
She  mounted,  and  she  turned  his  head 

Towards  her  native  land. 

Out  —  out  into  the  darkness  — 

Faster,  and  still  more  fast ; 
The  smooth  grass  flies  behind  her, 

The  chestnut  wood  is  past ; 
She  looks  up ;  clouds  are  heavy : 

Why  is  her  steed  so  slow?  — 
Scarcely  the  wind  beside  them 

Can  pass  them  as  they  go. 

"Faster!"  she  cries,   "O  faster!" 

Eleven  the  church-bells  chime: 
"0  God,"  she  cries,   "help  Bregenz, 
And  bring  me  there  in  time!" 
But  louder  than  bells'  ringing, 

Or  lowing  of  the  kine, 
Grows  nearer  in  the  midnight 
The  rushing  of  the  Rhine. 

Shall  not  the  roaring  waters 
Their  headlong  gallop  check? 


A  LEGEND  OF  BREGENZ.  189 

The  steed  draws  back  in  terror, 

She  leans  upon  his  neck 
To  watch  the  flowing  darkness ; 

The  bank  is  high  and  steep ; 
One  pause  — he  staggers  forward, 

And  plunges  in  the  deep. 

She  strives  to  pierce  the  blackness, 

And  looser  throws  the  rein ; 
Her  steed  must  breast  the  waters 

That  dash  above  his  mane. 
How  gallantly,   how  nobly, 

He  struggles  through  the  foam, 
And  see  —  in  the  far  distance 

Shine  out  the  lights  of  home! 

Up  the  steep  banks  he  bears  her, 

And  now,  they  rush  again 
Towards  the  heights  of  Bregenz, 

That  tower  above  the  plain. 
They  reach  the  gate  of  Bregenz, 

Just  as  the  midnight  rings, 
And  out  come  serf  and  soldier 

To  meet  the  news  she  brings. 

Bregenz  is  saved!    Ere  daylight 

Her  battlements  are  manned; 
Defiance  greets  the  army 

That  marches  on  the  land. 
And  if  to  deeds  heroic 

Should  endless  fame  be  paid, 
Bregenz  does  well  to  honor 

The  noble  Tyrol  maid. 


190  THE  NEW  CEtfTURY  READER. 

Three  hundred  years  are  vanished, 

And  yet  upon  the  hill 
An  old  stone  gateway  rises, 

To  do  her  honor  still. 
And  there,  when  Bregenz  women 

Sit  spinning  in  the  shade, 
They  see  in  quaint  old  carving 

The  Charger  and  the  Maid. 

And  when,  to  guard  old  Bregenz, 

By  gateway,   street,  and  tower, 
The  warder  paces  all  night  long 

And  calls  each  passing  hour; 
"Nine,"   "ten,"   "eleven,"  he  cries  aloud, 

And  then  ( O  crown  of  Fame ! ) 
When  midnight  pauses  in  the  skies, 

He  calls  the  maiden's  name ! 


THE  INVENTION  OF  PRINTING. 

SIR  WALTER  BESANT. 

{From  "Westminster.") 

Who  was  the  first  printer? 

You  may  read  all  the  books,  pamphlets,  and 
articles ;  you  may  consider  all  the  arguments,  and 
in  the  long  run  you  will  know  no  more  than  you 
knew  at  the  beginning.  Perhaps  it  was  Coster  of 
Haarlem,  or  perhaps  it  was  Gutenberg  of  Mainz. 
No  one  knows,  and  really  it  matters  little  except 
for  the  antiquary  and  the  historian. 

At  this  period  some  modification  in  the  old 
method  of  copying  was  certain  to  be  invented.  It 
was  by  the  greatest  good  luck,  I  have  always  thought, 


THE  INVENTION  OF  PRINTING.  191 

that  a  sort  of  shorthand,  a  representation  of  words 
by  little  easy  symbols,  was  not  invented.  For 
instance,  supposing  a  separate  symbol  for  each  of 
the  prepositions,  articles,  and  auxiliary  verbs,  and 
other  separate  symbols  for  the  commoner  words, 
there  might  be  some  thousands  of  symbols  in  all  to 
be  learned  by  the  scribe ;  but  his  labor  would  be 
reduced  to  one-tenth.  They  might  have  invented 
some  such  method.  Then,  satisfied  with  the  result, 
we  should  have  gone  on  for  centuries,  and  the  art 
of  printing  would  still  have  to  be  invented. 

But  the  time  was  come,  and  the  invention,  hap- 
pily, came  with  it.  Had  printing  been  invented  two 
centuries  before,  it  would  have  been  neglected  and 
speedily  forgotten,  because  there  was  no  demand  for 
books.  Had  it  been  invented  two  centuries  later,  it 
would  have  had  to  contend  against  some  other  con- 
trivance for  shortening  labor  and  cheapening  books. 

If  an  ingenious  projector  discovers  some  great 
truth  or  invents  some  useful  contrivance  before  or 
after  his  time,  he  is  lost  —  he  and  his  discovery. 
Thus,  in  the  reign  of  James  the  First  a  man  of 
great  ingenuity  contrived  a  submarine  boat — he  was 
before  his  age.  In  the  middle  of  the  last  century 
another  ingenious  person  discovered  a  way  of  send- 
ing messages  by  electricity  —  he  was  before  his  age. 
In  a  romance,  now  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  old, 
the  possibility  of  photography  was  imagined  by 
another  person  before  his  age.  Men  whose  ideas  are 
much  before  their  age  receive,  as  their  reward,  con- 
tempt, certainly ;  imprisonment,  probably ;  and  per- 
haps death  in  one  of  its  most  unpleasant  forms. 

The  generally   received  story,  after  all  that  has 


192  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

been  said,  is  this:  There  was  a  certain  Johann 
Gensileisch  von  Sorgenloch,  called  Znm  Gutenberg, 
a  man  of  noble  family,  who  was  born  in  Mainz 
somewhere  about  the  end  of  the  fourteenth  century. 
He  removed  from  his  native  town  to  Strasbourg, 
where  he  began  experimenting  upon  wood  blocks. 
He  then,  with  the  idea  of  printing  clearly  defined 
in  his  mind,  perhaps  with  type  already  cut  in 
wood,  went  back  to  Mainz  and  entered  into  partner- 
ship with  three  others,  named  Kiffe,  Heitman,  and 
Dritzchen. 

Documents  still  exist  which  prove  this  partner- 
ship, and  contemporary  evidence  is  clear  and  strong 
upon  the  point  that  this  Gutenberg,  and  none  other, 
was  the  inventor  of  the  art.  The  first  partnership 
was  speedily  broken  up.  A  second  was  formed  with 
Fust  or  Faust,  a  goldsmith,  and  one  Peter  Schoffer, 
who  seems  to  have  been  the  working  partner.  Cer- 
tainly he  improved  and  carried  the  art  to  a  high 
state  of  perfection. 

That  it  should  spread  was  certain ;  the  work  was 
simple ;  the  press  was  not  a  machine  which  could 
be  kept  secret.  Before  long  printers  were  setting 
up  their  presses  everywhere.  At  Bruges  the  first 
printer  was  one  Colard  Mansion,  a  native  of  the 
place.  He  was  a  member  of  the  Fraternity  or  Guild 
of  St.  John.  He  was  himself  a  writer,  or  at  least 
a  translator,  as  well  as  a  printer.  Caxton  followed 
him  in  this  respect.  He  printed  and  published 
twenty- two  works,  of  which  one,  called  "The  Gar- 
den 6f  Devotion,"  was  in  Latin,  the  others  were  all 
in  French  except  two,  which  were  in  English.  These 
two  were  printed  for  Caxton. 


THE  INVENTION  OF  PRINTING.  193 

These  are  the  earliest  English-printed  books.  The 
first  is  a  "Recuyell  of  the  History es  of  Troie"  ; 
the  second  is  "The  Game  and  Playe  of  the  Chesse." 
The  second  is  dedicated  to  the  unfortunate  Duke  of 
Clarence:  "To  the  righte  noble,  righte  excellent 
and  vertuous  Prince  George,  Due  of  Clarence,  Earle 
of  Warwicke  and  Salisburye,  Grete  Chamberlayne 
of  Englonde  and  Lieutenant  of  Ireland,  Oldest 
Brother  of  Kynge  Edwarde,  by  the  Grace  of  God 
Kynge  of  Englonde  and  of  France,  your  most  hum- 
ble servant  William  Caxton  amonge  other  of  youre 
servantes  sendes  unto  you  Peas,  Helthe,  Joye  and 
Victorye  upon  your  Enemies." 

The  "Recuyell,"  a  translation,  was  completed  in 
1471.  It  was  not  printed  until  1474.  The  conclu- 
sion is  that  Caxton  found  so  great  a  demand  for  it 
that  he  could  not  get  the  book  copied  quickly 
enough  to  meet  the  demand ;  that  his  attention  was 
drawn  to  the  newly  invented  art,  and  that  he  per- 
ceived something  of  the  enormous  possibilities  which 
it  presented.  About  this  time  he  resigned  the  post 
he  had  held  so  long ;  he  married  a  wife,  and  he 
entered  into  the  service  of  the  Duchess  of  Burgundy. 

It  has  been  asked  in  what  capacity  he  served. 
In  no  capacity  at  all ;  he  wore  the  livery  of  the 
Duchess ;  he  was  attached  to  the  court ;  he  had 
rooms  and  rations  and  some  allowance  of  money ; 
he  was  a  secretary  or  an  interpreter ;  he  conducted 
the  Duchess's  trade  ventures  ;  he  was  Usher  of  the 
White  Rod,  Chamberlain,  Gentleman -in -waiting — 
anything.  Do  not  let  us  be  deceived  by  the  word 
"service"  and  its  modern  meaning. 

This  "service"  lasted  a  very  short  time.     He  left 


194  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

the  court  —  one  knows  not  why  —  and  he  returned, 
after  this  long  absence,  to  his  native  land.  Then 
began  the  third,  the  last,  the  most  important  chapter 
of  his  life.  This  was  in  the  year  1476.  He  brought 
over  his  presses  and  his  workmen  with  him ;  and 
he  settled  at  Westminster. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  enumerate  the  books  which 
Caxton  printed.  Books  of  romance,  chivalry,  and 
great  achievements  were  demanded  by  the  knights 
and  nobles.  Books  of  service  were  wanted  by  the 
church.  Caxton  provided  these.  Anxious  to  run 
his  press  at  a  profit,  he  tried  no  experiments,  and 
was  content  to  be  a  servant  rather  than  a  teacher. 
f  Those  who  will  take  the  trouble  to  visit  the 
British  Museum  and  there  examine  for  themselves 
the  treasures  which  the  nation  possesses  of  early 
printing  will  be  astonished  to  observe  the  rapid 
advances  already  made  in  the  art  of  printing  when 
Caxton  undertook  its  practice.  The  type  is  clear 
and  strong — clearer  type  we  have  never  made  since; 
the  ink  is  perfectly  black  to  this  day ;  the  lines 
are  even  and  in  perfect  order ;  the  binding,  when 
an  ancient  binding  has  been  preserved,  is  like  any 
binding  of  later  times.  But  the  shape  of  the  book 
was  not  newly  invented,  nor  the  binding,  nor  the 
form  of  the  type ;  in  these  matters  the  printer  fol- 
lowed the  copyist. 

Rru'  ges  (jez) ,  a  city  of  Belgium.  Mainz  (mints),  a  city  of  Germany. 

Gut'  en  berg  (goo'  ten  bgrg),  the  reputed  Re'  cuy  ell',  an  old  English  word  signi- 

inventor  of  printing.  fying  a  collection. 

in  gen'  ious  (yus),  inventive  genius. 


ADVICE  TO  A  FAVORITE  NEPHEW.  195 

A  PRAYER. 

EDWIN  MAEKHAM. 

Teach  me,  Father,  how  to  go 
Softly  as  the  grasses  grow; 
Teach  me,  Father,  how  to  be 
Kind  and  patient  as  a  tree. 
Let  me,  also,  cheer  a  spot, 
Hidden  field  or  garden  grot  — 
Place  where  passing  sonls  can  rest 
On  the  way  and  be  their  best. 


ADVICE  TO  A  FAVORITE  NEPHEW. 

{From  a  Letter  to  Bushrod  Washington.*) 

Newbuegh,  January  15,  1783. 
Remember,  that  it  is  not  the  mere  study  of  the 
Law,  but  to  become  eminent  in  the  profession  of  it, 
which  is  to  yield  honor  and  profit.  The  first  was 
your  choice ;  let  the  second  be  your  ambition.  Dis- 
sipation is  incompatible  with  both ;  the  company  in 
which  you  will  improve  most  will  be  least  expen- 
sive to  you ;  and  yet  I  am  not  such  a  Stoic  as  to 
suppose  that  you  will,  or  to  think  it  right  that  you 
should,  always  be  in  company  with  senators  and 
philosophers ;  but  of  the  young  and  juvenile  kind 
let  me  advise  you  to  be  choice.     It  is  easy  to  make 


*  Bushrod  Washington  hecame  an  eminent  jurist.    For  thirty  years  he  was  a  Justice 
of  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States. 


196  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

acquaintances,  but  very  difficult  to  shake  them  off, 
however  irksome  and  unprofitable  they  are  found, 
after  we  have  once  committed  ourselves  to  them. 
The  indiscretions  and  scrapes,  which  very  often  they 
involuntarily  lead  one  into,  prove  equally  distressing 
and  disgraceful. 

Be  courteous  to  all,  but  intimate  with  few ;  and 
let  those  few  be  well  tried  before  you  give  them 
your  confidence.  True  friendship  is  a  plant  of  slow 
growth,  and  must  undergo  and  withstand  the  shocks 
of  adversity  before  it  is  entitled  to  the  appellation. 

Let  your  heart  feel  for  the  afflictions  and  dis- 
tresses of  every  one,  and  let  your  hand  give  in 
proportion  to  your  purse ;  remembering  always  the 
estimation  of  the  widow's  mite,  but,  that  it  is  not 
every  one  who  asketh  that  deserve th  charity ;  all, 
however,  are  worthy  of  the  inquiry,  or  the  deserving 
may  suffer. 

Do  not  conceive  that  fine  clothes  make  fine  men, 
any  more  than  fine  feathers  make  fine  birds.  A 
plain  genteel  dress  is  more  admired,  and  obtains 
more  credit  than  lace  and  embroidery,  in  the  eyes 
of  the  judicious  and  sensible. 

The  last  thing  which  I  shall  mention,  is  first  in 
importance ;  and  that  is,  to  avoid  gaming.  This  is 
a  vice  which  is  productive  of  every  possible  evil  ; 
equally  injurious  to  the  morals  and  health  of  its 
votaries.  It  is  the  child  of  avarice,  the  brother  of 
iniquity,  and  father  of  mischief.  It  has  been  the 
ruin  of  many  worthy  families,  the  loss  of  many  a 
man's  honor,  and  the  cause  of  suicide.  To  all  those 
who  enter  the  lists,  it  is  equally  fascinating.  The 
successful  gamester  pushes  his  good  fortune  till  it 


OUR  REUNITED  COUNTRY.  197 

is  overtaken  by  a  reverse.  The  losing  gamester,  in 
hopes  of  retrieving  past  misfortunes,  goes  on  from 
bad  to  worse,  till  grown  desperate  he  pushes  at 
everything  and  loses  his  all.  In  a  word,  few  gain 
by"  this  abominable  practice  (the  profit  if  any  being 
diffused),  while  thousands  are  injured. 

Perhaps  you  will  say,  "My  conduct  has  antici- 
pated the  advice,"  and  "Not  one  of  these  applies 
to  me."  I  shall  be  heartily  glad  of  it.  It  will  add 
not  a  little  to  my  happiness,  to  find  those  to  whom 
I  am  nearly  connected  pursuing  the  right  walk  of 
life.  It  will  be  the  sure  road  to  my  favor,  and  to 
those  honors  and  places  of  profit,  which  their 
country  can  bestow ;  as  merit  rarely  goes  unre- 
warded. 

I  am,  dear  Bushrod,  your  affectionate  uncle, 

George  Washington. 

sto'  ic,  one  free  from  all  passions;  unmoved  vo'  ta  ry,  one  devoted  to  anything, 

by  joy  or  grief. 


OUR   REUNITED  COUNTRY. 

CLARK   HOWELL. 

(From  a  Speech  delivered  at  the  Peace  Jubilee^  Chicago,  October  19, 1898.) 

In  the  mountains  of  my  State,  in  a  county  remote 
from  the  quickening  touch  of  commerce,  and  rail- 
roads, and  telegraphs  —  so  far  removed  that  the 
sincerity  of  its  rugged  people  flows  unpolluted  from 
the  spring  of  nature — two  vine-covered  mounds, 
nestled  in  the  solemn  silence  of  a  country  church- 
yard, suggest  the  text  of  my  response  to  the  senti- 
ment to  which  I  am  to  speak  to-night.      A  serious 


198  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

text,  and  yet  out  of  it  there  is  life,  and  peace,  and 
hope,  and  prosperity,  for  in  the  solemn  sacrifice  of 
the  voiceless  grave  can  the  chiefest  lesson  of  the 
republic  be  learned,  and  the  destiny  of  its  real  mis- 
sion be  unfolded. 

So  bear  with  me  while  I  lead  you  to  the  rust- 
stained  slab,  which,  for  a  third  of  a  century  —  since 
Chickamauga — has  been  kissed  by  the  sun  as  it 
peeped  over  the  Blue  Ridge,  melting  the  tears  with 
which  the  mourning  night  had  bedewed  the  inscrip- 
tion : 

"  Here  lies  a  Confederate  soldier. 
He  died  for  his  country." 

The  September  day  which  brought  the  body  of 
this  mountain  hero  to  that  home  among  the  hills 
which  had  smiled  upon  his  infancy,  been  gladdened 
by  his  youth,  and  strengthened  by  his  manhood, 
was  an  ever-memorable  one  with  the  sorrowing  con- 
course of  friends  and  neighbors  who  followed  his 
shot-riddled  body  to  the  grave;  and  of  that  num- 
ber no  man  gainsaid  the  honor  of  his  death,  lacked 
full  loyalty  to  the  flag  for  which  he  fought,  or 
doubted  the  justice  of  the  cause  for  which  he  gave 
his  life. 

Thirty-five  years  *  have  passed ;  another  war  has 
called  its  roll  of  martyrs ;  again  -the  old  bell  tolls 
from  the  crude,  latticed  tower  of  the  settlement 
church ;  another  great  pouring  of  sympathetic  hu- 
manity, and  this  time  the  body  of  a  son,  wrapped 
in  the  stars  and  stripes,  is  lowered  to  its  everln st- 
ing rest  beside  that  of  the  father  who  sleeps  in  the 
stars  and  bars. 

There  were  those  there  who  stood  by  the  grave 


OUR  REUNITED  COUNTRY.  199 

of  the  Confederate  hero  years  before,  and  the  chil- 
dren of  those  were  there,  and  of  those  present  no 
one  gainsaid  the  honor  of  the  death  of  this  hero  of 
El  Caney,  and  none  were  there  bnt  loved,  as  patriots 
alone  can  love,  the  glorious  flag  that  enshrines  the 
people  of  a  common  country  as  it  enshrouds  the 
form  that  will  sleep  forever  in  its  blessed  folds. 
And  on  this  tomb  will  be  written: 

"Here  lies  the  son  of  a  Confederate  soldier. 
He  died  for  his  country." 

And  so  it  is  that  between  the  making  of  these 
two  graves  human  hands  and  human  hearts  have 
reached  a  solution  of  the  vexed  problem  that  has 
baffled  human  will  and  human  thought  for  three 
decades.  Sturdy  sons  of  the  South  have  said  to 
their  brothers  of  the  North  that  the  people  of  the 
South  had  long  since  accepted  the  arbitrament  of 
the  sword  to  which  they  had  appealed.  And  like- 
wise the  oft-repeated  message  has  come  back  from 
the  North  that  peace  and  good  will  reigned,  and 
that  the  wounds  of  civil  dissension  were  as  but 
sacred  memories. 

Drawing  inspiration  from  the  flag  of  our  country, 
the  South  has  shared  not  only  the  dangers,  but  the 
glories  of  the  war.  In  the  death  of  brave  young 
Bagley  at  Cardenas,  North  Carolina  furnished  the 
first  blood  in  the  tragedy.  It  was  Victor  Blue  of 
South  Carolina  who,  like  the  Swamp  Fox  of  the 
Revolution,  crossed  the  fiery  path  of  the  enemy  at 
his  pleasure  and  brought  the  first  official  tidings  of 
the  situation  as  it  existed  in  Cuba.  It  was  Brumby, 
a  Georgia  boy,  the  flag  lieutenant  of   Dewey,  who 


200  THE  NEW  CENTURY  READER. 

first  raised  the  stars  and  stripes  over  Manila.  It 
was  Alabama  that  furnished  Hobson — glorious  Hob- 
son — who  accomplished  two  things  the  Spanish 
navy  never  yet  has  done  —  sunk  an  American  ship 
and  made  a  Spanish  man-of-war  securely  float. 

When  that  great  and  generous  soldier,  U.  S. 
Grant,  gave  back  to  Lee,  crushed,  but  ever  glorious, 
the  sword  he  had  surrendered  at  Appomattox,  that 
magnanimous  deed  said  to  the  people  of  the  South, 
"You  are  our  brothers."  But  when  the  present 
ruler  of  our  grand  republic,  on  awakening  to  the 
condition  of  war  that  confronted  him,  with  his  first 
commission  placed  the  leader's  sword  in  the  hands 
of  those  gallant  Confederate  commanders,  Joe 
Wheeler  and  Fitzhugh  Lee,  he  wrote  between  the 
lines  in  living  letters  of  everlasting  light  the  words, 
"There  is  but  one  people  of  this  Union,  one  flag 
for  all." 

ar  bit'  ra  ment,  decision.  quick'  en  ing,  life-giving. 

en  shrouds',  to  cover  as  with  a  shroud.         un'  pol  lu'  ted,  undefined;  untainted. 


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